


The College Years

by intothesilentland



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Slightly), Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Bottom Dean, Dean Has Nightmares, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, Dom!Cas, Dom/sub, Endverse!Castiel, Fluff, Gentle Dom Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Sub!Dean, Top Cas, dean has ptsd, mentions/descriptions of past abuse, prequel to Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 198,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4027741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intothesilentland/pseuds/intothesilentland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A follow-on story to Amnesia. Kind of a prequel. Set during the years of College where Dean and Castiel fell in love, long before Castiel lost his memory. You don't have to have read Amnesia for this to make sense (you really don't, actually), but I don't know, if I were to do it in any order, I would read Amnesia first. Anyway.</p><p>Castiel has avoided humans his entire life. After too many bad experiences with them - along with the whole systematic racism thing; it's just the best way he can think of to avoid a. harm, b. upset, and c. complaints of "reverse racism". And Dean has avoided getting close - at least, for the past year or so - to anyone. But especially guys he finds himself inexplicably attracted to. And he, too, has some pretty damn justified reasons for this. So naturally, when the two meet, a great deal of sparks - along with confusion and glares - fly.</p><p>But ever so slowly, Castiel finds himself falling in love with a human, while Dean finds himself falling in love. It's hard to say who is more horrified by the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lonely Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Um, dom/sub stuff (Dom!Cas, Sub!Dean, if you've read Amnesia you'll be familiar with the situation). Totally consensual, (and only starts up when Dean and Cas get together), all very healthy and to be honest, more fluffy than anything else. I'll put a warning before each chapter outlining all the smut stuff it's going to contain and where in the chapter it'll be located, if some people want to avoid it for whatever reason. There's also a lot of past mentions of abuse, and I'll put warnings in for those when they come around. I'll also put a warning up for bad language now, and basically say that this story is gonna contain a lot of swears, so I'm sorry if you don't dig that kind of thing. Finally, I feel I ought to say that because this story contains descriptions of racism in regards to racism to angels from humans (which you could I either view as being a multiplying factor when it comes to racial discrimination? like, white angels would experience less prejudice as POC angels; OR you could regard the whole thing as a metaphor for racism and view angels as a metaphor for anyone in an oppressed ethnic group and all the angels as people who experience racism for whatever reason, idk) ANYWAY; I feel I should make clear that I've got a fuck tonne of white privilege and that I will never be able to understand the extent or degree to which many people experience racism. The bigoted society of the story is part of the plot and the story itself, and mirrors that of our own world; although of course not entirely accurately. (Also after so many years of being called an "**sjw**" I thought I should give the people what they want and write a story featuring issues of social justice.) Ofc if anyone has any requests/tips in me writing this to make it more realistic/less problematic in any way, that'd be wonderful and very much appreciated.
> 
> Umm, what else? Short chapters, like the last story, sorry this one took so long; I have a horrible + busy life right now and it's been so difficult to a. get in the right headspace for writing and b. find time for it because of anxiety and workload. (TMI. I'll carry on with the important stuff). This is all very vague and rambling due to extreme exhaustion, and I can't say for certain when the next chapter will be up, but hopefully soon. Sorry for keeping you all waiting. "But where's the medieval fantasy BIG BANG thing you promised?" It's coming! I can now definitely say that come summer, I will begin uploading the chapters. Of course, betas would be lovely, but I get that you all have just as busy, if not more so, hectic lives like my own.
> 
> If you've made it this far into the Author's Note you're a real fucking trooper and I'm very proud of you. I'm also very excited for my next two stories despite being so tired and worried and really really hope you all love them! Right, that's it, thank you all so much for the support, I love you all, and enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters in it.

 

 

1.

"I've gotta warn you, Dean, my roommates a bit of a nightmare." Ezekiel grins sheepishly, leading Dean out of the crowded changing rooms, left stuffy and humid by post-practice showers and the sheer number of young sweaty dudes coming in exhausted from several hours of intense practice. Dean wrinkles his nose at the damp, warm air, breathing deeply in a very audible sigh of relief when he and the older boy make it at last out onto the far-less-busy corridor. The air seems considerably cooler out here, he thinks absently, which leads him to feel a lot less like he's about to pass out from light-headedness.

"Oh, really? He can't be  _that_  bad." Dean laughs, a little nervously. Ezekiel doesn't seem to notice—or at least, to his credit, doesn't point it out—which is a relief, as Dean isn't good with new people. Dean isn't really good with  _people._  He's found himself increasingly awkward over the years—and following the convolution of his relationship with… well, put simply, Dean has been left somewhat broken by a lot of shitty factors in what feels like a fairly shitty life. It's been months since the worst of that time, though. Nearly a year since he hit rock bottom. Dean should be over it. He really isn't.

"Oh, he is." Ezekiel chuckles, shaking his head in an oddly wistful, affectionate way as he pushes open the double doors of the block in which the changing rooms are situated, holding them open for Dean.

"Thanks." Dean mumbles, still feeling slightly uncomfortable. It's not that Ezekiel isn't friendly—Ezekiel is  _very_ friendly. It's just that Dean hasn't always had the best of experiences with these extroverted and very-friendly people. And anyway, the only times that he and Ezekiel have spoken have been on the football field—and Dean is certainly  _way_ more comfortable and at-ease when in his sports gear than when he is having  _real_ conversations with people. Dean doesn't have to worry about  _anything_  out on the field. All he has to think about is, well, playing the game—which he's pretty damn good at, all things considered. And after each game or practice, when in the comfort of the changing-rooms, he doesn't have to think all that much, either. He doesn't even mind when he feels the press of eyes on his skin—whether they be regarding the scars etched over Dean's lower back and shoulders, or just checking Dean out. Dean isn't the one having to look at the scars, so it's fine. And honestly, people checking Dean out is pretty much what's left of his self-esteem. At least he knows he's pretty, if nothing else.

"No problem." Ezekiel smiles genuinely. Dean relaxes marginally and drags himself from his thoughts. The problem is, he's never truly away from his thoughts; and even him relaxing around people still manages to put him on the edge. It's a horrible contradiction, and one that ensures that the number of people Dean is ever  _truly_ able to be himself around is limited to a number that he could count on his fingers with both of his thumbs cut off. But Dean getting comfortable around people outside of family has only ever resulted in disaster.

"Well, I don't mean to say that he's  _bad,_ per se—he's annoying as hell, though." Ezekiel grins, pushing his way through a swarm of people leaving from one of the lecture halls and glancing back at Dean as he speaks. It's a little difficult for Dean to manage to keep up.

"In what ways?" Dean's forehead creases with a slight frown.

"So many ways." Ezekiel grins widely, shaking his head in what is once again a somewhat affectionate manner. "Okay, first thing, he burns incense in our dorm. It makes the whole place smell like—well, I don't know, like some kind of opium den, or something—"

"Opium den?" Dean repeats, chuckling slightly.

"—I don't know," Ezekiel laughs, rolling his deep brown eyes in a good-humoured manner. "Shut up. Anyway, he stinks the whole place up with it—and I mean, it doesn't smell  _bad_ as such; it just makes the room kind of stuffy. And his excuse is that it helps him work. I mean, what the fuck?"

"You never know." Dean shrugs, a tight fist in his stomach balled tensely. His whole body is begging him to relax. "It could be good for concentration?" He suggests. Ezekiel glances over to him and bursts out laughing. Dean's face prickles with that familiar burning sensation that sets in whenever he even  _moderately_ embarrasses himself. Damn it. Ezekiel is mocking him, Ezekiel thinks he's a freak; he's only been at this college for a few weeks and  _already_ he's managed to get a guy on the football team to realise what an utter  _dork_ he is—

"You sound like him." He laughs playfully—it reminds Dean oddly of a hearing a child's amiable giggles. "You'll be on his side, before you know it. Ugh, he's even turning my  _friends_ against me—even the ones he hasn't even met yet!" He pushes Dean playfully, but Dean's mind has stumbled to a halt. Friends.  _Friends._ Dean is a friend? Dean  _has_ a friend here?

"Sorry," Dean laughs—he's finally relaxing,  _finally._ He lets the smile pressing at his lips slip on a little more naturally. He doesn't bother supressing it. "I'll make sure I don't voice my opinions on the matter if you two get in a fight in front of me."

"Ooh, promising to remain neutral on the topic?" Ezekiel grins. "Playing it safe, are we?"

"We are." Dean confirms. "Like Switzerland."

Ezekiel bursts out laughing. Dean cannot help but beam at the response to his joke—normally he  _can't_ make jokes when not in his uniform—his uniform is like his armour, his shield, his security. He hasn't been able to make jokes in front of relative-strangers and near-acquaintances in  _years._ And here he is. Making some guy he met only a few days previously  _laugh._

It fells incredible.

"Well, I guess it could be worse, anyway." Ezekiel shrugs. "I mean, I could have asthma. Then I'd  _really_ be screwed."

"You really would." Dean nods in absent agreement. "Would your roommate really keep burning it, even if it affected your health?" He raises his eyebrows in a mixture between incredulousness and concern. Ezekiel glances over to Dean and lets out another warm laugh.

"Honestly? It wouldn't surprise me if he did. But that makes him sound like a bad person—and it's not that he wouldn't care, it's that he wouldn't  _notice._ I mean, forget another world, Castiel exists in another  _dimension._  Head in the clouds, more like head in the  _stars_ , and all that."

"Castiel? So that's his name, then?"

"Yeah," Ezekiel confirms, nodding absently as the pair amble by the green lawns and neat grey pavements of the college campus.

Castiel, Dean repeats the name inside his head, listening to it echo around his skull. Angels, he has discovered, press a lot of meaning onto their names—which sound rather different to the names of all Dean's human acquaintances. But they sound elegant, beautiful to Dean's somewhat uncultured lips. This name in particular.

"What else does he do that's so annoying, then?" Dean enquires, speaking loudly to be heard over a group of loudly giggling girls as they pass by.

The angel glances back at the girls. "They're giggling 'cause of you, y'know." Ezekiel smirks lightly, noticing Dean's wince at the level of volume omitting from the cluster of young women.

"What?" Dean frowns.

"Wow, you may not have noticed it, Dean, but you're what could very rationally be considered pretty damn desirable." Ezekiel grins. Dean flushes immediately.

"No," He shakes his head, sputtering somewhat. "I had noticed. I just—"

"Anyway, what else does Castiel do?" Ezekiel glances upwards, as though searching the insides of his skull for further examples of his roommate's exasperating qualities. "Well, this one might be a little unreasonable of me, but despite being  _impossibly_ awkward, he's still got  _incredible_  game."

"What?"

"Yeah, somehow he manages to balance dorky with attractive. Women dig that shit, apparently. Well, if they dig men, then they dig that shit. But you'd probably know all about that, wouldn't you, Dean?" Ezekiel's grin widens considerably. Dean stammers something even  _he_ doesn't understand, and Ezekiel's expression softens into something holding an almost brotherly affection, and he reaches out to ruffle Dean's hair. "I'm just messing with you, don't worry about it." He chortles softly. "But coming to think of it, actually, you'd be  _exactly_ Castiel's type, if you weren't—well—"

"A dude?"

"No, he goes for dudes, too." Ezekiel shakes his head. "He goes for  _everyone—_ and everyone goes for him, too, for that matter—or at least as far as I can tell—" Ezekiel laughs again, but this laugh sounds slightly more forced, more nervous than before.

"So, what?" Dean raises his eyebrows at Ezekiel as the two of them enter the block of dorms in which Ezekiel and the mysterious Castiel must apparently dwell.

"So, before we go in, Dean," Ezekiel stops on the corridor, his expression changing from childish and playful to something altogether far more serious—the shift is of an odd impact to Dean's general and new-found feeling of ease around his teammate—"There's several things you  _really_ ought to know about Cassie."

"Oh?" Dean raises his eyebrows, murky unease twisting its way uncomfortably into his gut. "What are they?"

"A: He fucking hates video games—he's really weirdly pretentious, I don't even know—"

"That's okay," Dean chuckles. "—I mean, I'll be playing you, not him, right?"

"Right." Ezekiel nods, a smile flickering at his features.

"And I'm gonna thrash your sorry ass." Dean grins widely.

"Oh, really?" Ezekiel breaks out into that familiar smirk, again, "You really think you're that good, huh?"

"What part of 'thrash your sorry ass' don't you understand?" Dean snorts. Ezekiel bursts out laughing again. Dean relaxes a little more.

"Seriously, though," Ezekiel sighs, his expression returning to the serious one, as before—it sends Dean's nerves skyrocketing once again. "He'll be doing this whole  _'holier than thou'_ act the whole time, and that in itself can get pretty infuriating."

"I have two younger siblings." Dean laughs. "I can cope."

"Okay, cool." Ezekiel nods absently. "Oh, and, uh—one more thing?"

"What?" Dean asks, as Ezekiel strides anxiously over to the door and turns the handle.

"He can't fucking stand humans." Ezekiel grins, somewhat nervously, somewhat wickedly, and swings open the door. "So good luck."

Dean stammers. His heart rises into his throat—what?—no, no no  _no_ he can't do socialising  _normally—_ and  _this—?!_

"Hi—" Dean hears a rough, rumbling voice like honey over gravel greet from somewhere inside the room as Ezekiel enters, practically hauling Dean inside with him. The sentence is apparently cut short, and Dean is met by the sight of the  _most_   _beautiful_  person he thinks he's ever laid eyes on, stretched out on a bed which lies along one side of the room. He glares in wide eyed  _horror_  at Dean— _and those eyes._  They're like—Dean doesn't know—he doesn't have a word for it. They're like glaciers. Like icy oceans. Like staring at the sky on one of the clearest days imaginable, only the faint outline of stars can also be seen, glaring out into the pale, pressing blue. Dean's breath is caught in his throat—Ezekiel's roommate— _Castiel—_ is all sharp, delicate features, pointed and centred and perfect. His shocking eyes are framed by a pair of dark eyebrows pinched into a light, pressing frown; his forehead is somewhat lined with the evidence of too much heavy thinking; his hair is a dark brown—almost jet black—a mess around his features; his pink mouth is puckered into something that looks almost like a  _pout;_  cheekbones rise elegantly and firmly and gently into the most enchanting face Dean thinks he's ever seen—and never ever in all Ezekiel's descriptions of his roommate does Dean remember Castiel being described as so flawlessly, breathtakingly  _beautiful._

The whole room smells of cinnamon and spices and sandalwood and vanilla candles and lavender and soft, subtle burning and heavy, musky smoke; and Dean can barely breathe but he honestly can't think of  _any_ reason why Ezekiel would wish to complain about the scent of Castiel's burning incense. It's glorious and enchanting and Dean feels sleepy and happy despite the fact that his heart is in his throat and is hammering so violently that he is scared he's going to throw up; despite the fact his intestines have now wrapped themselves around his stomach—which is currently jumping  _backflips_ at the sight of Ezekiel's roommate.  _Holy shit._

Ezekiel has made his way over to the tiny television in the corner of the room and switches it on, tossing a controller behind him to Dean. Dean only just snaps out of his daze in time to catch it, and it very nearly slips out of his fingers. His face burns a furious red. He avoids looking at Castiel. He is sure he hears the angel snort out a condescending laugh.

"This is Dean." Ezekiel gestures non-concomitantly over to Dean, whose gaze has flickered nervously back to Castiel's gorgeous, constantly frowning face. Castiel glares at Dean in response. He makes no sound of greeting. "Do you want to sit down?" Exekiel gestures to a pair of beanbags crammed next to each other in front of the TV. Dean drags his gaze away from Castiel's face and nods, making his way mortifyingly clumsily over to his allocated seat as Ezekiel slumps himself down onto the other.

Dean glances up at Castiel to see him returning to his book, a muscle in his jaw twitching somewhat. He looks angry. Dean thinks absently that Ezekiel  _really_ meant it when he said how much his roommate hated humans. Dean can scarcely bring himself to take his eyes off the angel, just nodding absently to Ezekiel's suggestions of what mode they ought to play in, making non-commitant sounds of approval at each of Ezekiel's proposals. After a few minutes, Castiel glances up to see catch Dean in the act of staring wide eyed at him. Dean is met by a gruff glare, and he looks down quickly, his face burning with embarrassment.  _For fuck's sake,_ Dean thinks to himself.  _Act normal, you fucking moron._

Just as this thought burns through Dean's mind, his gaze returns to Castiel. He flicks his eyes away quickly. Then back at the angel. Then away again. He can't stop. He continues in this manner as he attempts to play. He  _really_ can't stop. Castiel looks up again—Dean can't really be surprised—well, he wasn't exactly being  _subtle._ But his face is still scorching hot; and it doesn't stop him from attempting to remain inconspicuous—what's the point of doing that, now?—Dean kicks himself internally. He thinks he catches Castiel smirking at him. Is it meant to be belittling? It feels belittling. Is it meant to be affectionate? Unlikely, Dean almost snorts to himself. Or perhaps the angel's smirk is intended as embarrassing? Or mocking? Or—

"Dean, I thought you said you were good!" Ezekiel exclaims, laughing, snapping Dean once again out of his daze. "I'm thrashing you! You suck  _so_  badly!"

Castiel snorts from where he lies across his bed. Dean's face is threatening to catch on fire. He dreads to think of how red it must be. It's a relief that he can't see himself in any mirrors right now. It'd only make him go redder. In fact,  _thinking_ about how red he must be is probably making him go redder.

"I  _am_  good, normally." Dean mumbles, unable to keep the embarrassment from trickling into his voice. "Today must just be an off day for me." He looks down. Mortified. "Maybe you're just really good, too."

Ezekiel glances at Dean. His expression is almost  _understanding—_ can he tell? Has he seen this look on enough of Castiel's apparently countless lovers to know when someone is so devastatingly attracted to the angel? Or is he just assuming? Does he just assume that  _everyone_ who meets Castiel will find themselves attracted to him? Is  _Ezekiel_ attracted to Castiel as well? Dean wouldn't blame him if he was. Dean wouldn't blame  _anyone_ for being attracted to the angel.

"Are you sure you're even concentrating? What's got you so distracted?" He asks, a soft frown pinching at his features.

Is it a knowing frown? Maybe Dean is just being paranoid. He sure hopes so. He shrinks a little further into his seat, in any case. He wishes the ground would just swallow him whole.

"I guess it's just one of those days." He attempts to shrug as nonchalantly as possible.

"Whatever, we can just chill for a bit, if you'd prefer." Ezekiel suggests. His voice has softened considerably. The guy's compassionate, that's for sure.

"That sounds better." Dean nods, barely able to keep the relief off of his features. He swallows thickly and glances up once more at Castiel to see him roll his eyes and return to the book.

Ezekiel jumps up onto his bed and stretches out across it, kicking his now vacant beanbag over to Dean.

"Here, use this as a footrest, or something, if you want."

"Okay," Dean nods awkwardly, tugging the bag towards him and shifting on his own seat, before resting his feet on the make-shift footrest.

"Should we just chill, then? Talk?"

"Sure." Dean nods, his face still prickling with discomfort. Ezekiel launches into conversation—apparently being social remains something of great ease to the guy—and Dean takes the opportunity to further examine the angel sprawled out across the bed parallel to Ezekiel's.

It isn't that Castiel is conventionally attractive—not at all so, in fact. But he  _is_  undeniably pretty. Beautiful. And anyway, all of his— _unexpected_  attractiveness—just makes him all the more enchanting. His eyes—it's like there's an entire world peering out of them; so many thoughts and ideas and streams of consciousness; intelligence bubbling and brimming out of Castiel's very soul, expressed only through his eyes—the rest of his face remains otherwise fixed in that seemingly permanent frown. His hair is an utter mess—apparently the guy isn't one to waste his time attempting to tame it or style it, but it suits Castiel, Dean decides. It looks good messy and unkempt. And his features, so pointed and focused, yet delicate—Dean is  _sure_ that they reflect the guy's thoughts. Castiel just  _radiates_ intelligence. What else? Well, he's not what anyone would expect, when picturing someone undeniably hot. And maybe that just adds to the guy's overall hotness. But he's very unconventionally beautiful—and not just that—he's, well, interesting to look at. Fascinating.

His wings bristle at his sides, twitching now and then as they remain lost in thought. They're even darker than his hair, and appear velvet soft. Dean knows that most angels only let those closest to them touch their wings. For whatever reason, he longs to be that way with Castiel.

"Yeah, Cas is this huge social activist, too." Ezekiel states, lounging back onto the bed. "He's  _always_ talking about it—seriously, him and your brother should get together some time—"

"Oh," Dean nods, his gaze flickering absently over to Castiel, still apparently engrossed in his book. "Has he ever been on any protests?"

"Ask him yourself," Ezekiel smirks. "He'd love to tell you, trust me."

Dean isn't so sure—but an excuse to talk to Castiel is an excuse enough, isn't it?

"Um—" He stammers, unsure of himself as he fixes his gaze as steadily as he can onto Ezekiel's roommate. "Castiel—have you ever been on any protests, or anything…?" He trails off as the angel remains steadily transfixed by his book, paying Dean and his question no mind.

Dean feels himself melt with how hot his face goes. He's turned into a puddle on the ground. That's it. He's gone. Goodbye, solid life, apparently Dean was always destined to live as a mortified, awkward liquid-boy; forever embarrassed and stammering and blushing and unable to talk to the people he—

"Fucking hell," He hears Ezekiel sigh next to him, and in the next moment, a pillow is thrown across the very small room and at Castiel's head. The angel yelps in response and glares up from his book.

"Hey!" He exclaims. "What the fuck was that for?!"

"Dean just asked a question, feather-brain." Ezekiel deadpans. Dean's face catches ablaze as Castiel appears to supress a venomous scowl and turns to Dean with an immensely frustrated expression.

"Sorry—" Dean stammers. Why does he have to stammer?! Once upon a time, Dean was smooth and confident and slick as fuck, but then it all changed. Why did it all change? Why did it  _have_ to change?

Oh yeah.

Dean remembers now.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your reading—" Dean finds himself stammering out, before he is able to pursue his thoughts any further. It's a good thing he doesn't—there are doors in Dean's mind he doesn't want to open.

"Well, you have, now." Castiel sighs, his voice rough and tired. Dean's insides crumble with sheer embarrassment. "What were you going to ask?"

His voice is gorgeously rough, Dean thinks absently. Castiel is  _so_  different to Alastair— _no,_ Dean thinks, quickly. Door. Mind. Not opening.

But he can't help it. Where Dean is so used to a nasal, oil-slick voice and a sneering, greasy expression filled with superficial charm and allure, he is met by the rough sound of honey over gravel; warm and coarse and soft somehow all at the same time; an expression not of malice shrouded with the thin veil of a blood-curdling sadistic kind of arousal, but of exasperation and patience and focus, all masking  _kindness—?_ Is it kindness Dean can see storming in the depths of Castiel's eyes?

And Castiel's movements—simultaneously awkward and feline, the picture of unsophisticated grace. He rolls the joints of his wings in smooth, absent circles as he gazes at Dean—and Dean is so used to sudden, sharp lunges and blows and hits doubled with sneering features, that—

"I just—Ezekiel said you were a social activist—" He drags himself out of his daze, taking a shuddering breath. Castiel's jaw clenches as Dean speaks, and his heart sinks instantly into his stomach, which threatens to sink into his gut; and  _for fuck's sake,_ why couldn't Dean just let things be? Why did he  _have_ to try and speak to Castiel? The guy  _clearly_ doesn't want to speak with Dean, and—

"That's right." Castiel replies, somewhat tersely.

"I just wanted to ask if you've ever been on any protests?" Dean stutters out, quickly. "'Cause my brother, Sammy—he's super passionate over civil rights stuff—he's always bugging me to take him to marches and stuff—and I just—" He doesn't know how to end his sentence. He shrivels a little further into his seat. Castiel regards him for a moment, squinting slightly, his dark eyelashes framing his piercing eyes so perfectly—Dean cannot help but bristle under the gaze, his cheeks growing hotter and hotter by the instant.

"I have, yes." Castiel nods. Dean fumbles furiously with his own hands as some sort of attempt at a distraction. His mind is whirling at a mile a minute. "You have a brother?" He asks. Dean looks up, his heart floating upwards from his stomach and into his lungs, thrumming with joy—Castiel is  _talking_ to him, he's taking an  _interest!_

"Yeah, he's four years younger than me." Dean nods. He presses down on the urge to blurt out everything he knows—which is just about everything there is—of Sam. He keeps it brief. He stops himself from babbling. "He's super smart."

"I'm sure." Castiel nods absently, seemingly ready to return to his book—but Dean speaks again. He can't leave it there. He wants more.

"Have you got any brothers or sisters?"

Castiel sighs and looks up.

"One younger sister." He states. Dean nods. He falters for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"What's her name?"

"Rachel." Castiel replies. "She's seventeen."

His voice is warm with affection. It's prefect,  _he's_ perfect—it's two hours since Dean met the guy and he has only exchanged a few  _sentences_ with Castiel and already Dean is in too deep. He hums and nods. Castiel slumps slightly with something—it looks horrifically like relief—and returns to his book. Dean cannot think of anything else to speak about with the angel. He doesn't think the angel  _wants_ to speak of anything else, anyway.

Dean returns to his conversation with Ezekiel. After several minutes, he glances back up at Castiel, who is already peering at Dean. Should Dean be happy about that? Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and Dean's features flood with that familiar red-hotness, burning him with awkward embarrassment. He looks away just as quickly. He thinks he can feel Castiel's gaze still pressing hotly, penetratingly, at the side of his face as he continues his conversation with Ezekiel. He can't bring himself to check. Castiel has caught him staring at him far too many times over the past few hours.

"I'm going to get some air." The angel states flatly, standing up suddenly and leaving his book open on his pillow. Dean's gaze snaps back over, at last, to Ezekiel's roommate.

"Good for you." Ezekiel mimics Castiel's tone, to which Castiel scowls in response, aiming the pillow that had been previously aimed at him at his roommate's head. "Hey—!" Ezekiel exclaims, scowling back at Castiel—their expressions are almost identical, and Dean snorts out a laugh, despite himself.

Poor move, apparently. He is met by almost  _livid_  glares from both angels. His face heats again.  _Again._ He's got to get a control of himself. Before he can apologise, or blush any more, Castiel has exited, scarcely slamming the door behind him.

There is a silence for a moment, punctuated only by the press of Ezekiel's gaze at the side of Dean's face. Dean makes a point of not looking. He can tell his face is still a burnt red, although it certainly feels as though it is simmering down, slightly. After another moment, Ezekiel sighs loudly and sits up slightly on his bed.

"I told you."

"Told me what?" Dean frowns, looking up at the angel at last.

"That he's a nightmare." Ezekiel rolls his eyes.

"He didn't seem  _that_ bad." Dean attempts to shrug carelessly, but something in his tone must betray him, because Ezekiel pulls an unconvinced face. There is another pause.

"You like him." The angel says after a moments quiet. It's not a question, it's a statement, and Dean's gaze shoots back up to Ezekiel's face, mortification swirling murkily in his gut.

"—I—" Dean stammers.

"Don't worry about it," Ezekiel shrugs, lying back on his bed again, resting his head against the wall. "Most people do. There's something about him, I reckon—something you only find yourself able to resist if you actually have to  _live_ with the guy."

"So what you're saying is, aside from the fact that he already hates me because I'm a human, I've got more than enough competition as it is? And I should give up?"

"Not exactly," Ezekiel shrugs again. "What I  _am_ saying is that he's not really worth it, honestly. If you only knew how infuriating the dude can get…"

"I guess we can all get pretty infuriating, though." Dean points out, staring nervously at Ezekiel. He worries absently at his lip.

"I guess." Ezekiel concedes carelessly. "All I'm saying," He sighs, picking up a football from the side of his bed and throwing it up, watching it as it spins in the air and then catching it, before tossing it lightly over to Dean, "is that you needn't bother.  _You_ don't deserve that. Cas—he's—" Ezekiel sighs a moment, catching the ball when Dean tosses it back to him. "—He's an odd one, you know? I find him  _impossibly_ annoying, and sure, I love the guy like a brother, but that doesn't change the fact that he leaves me wanting to put a bullet in my own skull, sometimes. And he probably wants to do the same to me, most of the time. And anyway, he's  _seriously_ oblivious—unless he likes someone, he won't really pay them any mind."

"And I fit into the bracket of not being paid any mind." Dean states, flatly.

"Pretty much." Ezekiel shrugs. The ball is tossed, once again, over to Dean. "Like I said, normally you'd be  _just_ his type—it's just that—well…"

"I'm a human." Dean finishes Ezekiel's sentence for him.

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up." Ezekiel snorts. Dean finds himself a lot less amused than the angel appears to be. But why does Dean even care? He hasn't crushed on  _any_ guys like this, since—

"And like you said, there's a lot of competition. But more in the sense that Cassie gets  _insanely_ lucky when it comes to sleeping around—he's basically this huge hippie obsessed with getting laid and getting people laid—and Dean, he can be a total asshole when he wants to be. Yeah, I know, we all can—but Cassie can go above and beyond the call of being a little shit when he feels like it. And sure, he can be really nice and awesome and sensitive, but not really to humans, 'cause he's had a lot of bad experiences with you guys."

"Then it's fair enough." Dean shrugs. "He's had bad experience, he wants to be wary. I understand that."

And he does. Dean understands it more than most. It's just that it's not  _humans_ he's wary with; more specifically—

"All I'm saying is," Another sigh emits from Ezekiel's lips. "I like you. I like your company. You seem like a cool guy, chilled, funny—and that kind of person is pretty hard to come by. But more importantly, you're a friend. And I don't want to see you getting hurt—and crushes on Cas? Well, from what I've seen, they usually lead to just that: people getting hurt."

Friend. Definitely friend, this time. Dean is a  _friend_ of Ezekiel's—Ezekiel  _likes_ Dean; and not just for his footballing ability, not just because of Dean's pretty green eyes and dark eyelashes—he  _likes_ Dean for being cool, funny, chilled—chilled?!—Dean nearly scoffs to himself; if Ezekiel had seen— _could_ see—the way Dean's mind is racing and storming anxiously inside his skull, the way it has been doing just that, uncontrollably, for the past two or three hours—

"Okay." Dean nods. It's hard to supress his beam, even at the crush of Ezekiel's words to him of his chances—or lack thereof—with Castiel. "I get it."

Dean has a friend now, at least. Someone he can see being a good friend. A kind friend. He hasn't had one of those in a long while. He hasn't really had a relationship with anyone outside of his family that has been happy, been  _healthy,_ in years. And right now, he couldn't care less if Castiel will never like him back. Even if the angel is the polar opposite of Alastair.  _Especially_ if he's the polar opposite of Alastair. That shouldn't be a reason to date someone. Shouldn't be a reason to  _like_  someone. And Dean is going to get over this awkward crush. He'll by over by the end of the week. He'll be over it in no time. He swears he will.

 


	2. Funny You Should Ask

 

Castiel glances up at the clock on the wall of his and Ezekiel’s dorm room. Then back down at his book. He doesn’t have anywhere to be going—not for a long while, anyway—but the solitude is growing slightly lonely. He wonders where his roommate has got off to. When it is he will be back.

Ezekiel is friends with humans. Lots of them. He tells Castiel that he should do the same, that it’s ridiculous that he’s in the third year of college, and still avoids them—but honestly, Castiel is slightly _afraid_ to befriend them. Throughout the entirety of his life, humans have been cold and cruel towards Castiel—and angels, in general. It’s hard to forget things like that—especially when prejudice and bigotry seem like humanity’s gift that simply keeps on giving. The feelings Castiel holds towards humans are and odd combination of resentment and fear—and Castiel isn’t about to forget all the times he’s faced the harder sides of oppression, all for the comfort of some of his human peers.

But somehow, his roommate, a fellow angel, has no issue with speaking to the people who are responsible for the oppression of their race. Experience has taught Castiel to be wary of humanity; of the hatred they can harbour.

Castiel sighs and highlights an important sentence. Annotates it.

He has heard that the humans at the university are friendly towards angels—well, they’d have to be, in a sense—going to a college that was opened as the first integrated college of the states. But part of Castiel suspects that those who are friendly are only so for the novelty of being able to state that they have “an angel friend” in college. Oh, how inclusive of them, Castiel snorts to himself. How very modern.

The door is swung open. Castiel looks up. Ezekiel steps through after a moment, and Castiel frowns softly as he greets his roommate.

“Hi—” He begins, from where he lies on his bed, but his sentence is cut short when he sees who it is who follows his roommate into their dorm.

“Hi, Castiel.” Ezekiel nods, apparently not finding the need to explain what the _fuck_ it is he’s doing. He makes his way over to the tiny television and switches it on, tossing a controller over to the human behind him. “This is Dean.” He gestures to the human, who is staring at Castiel, apparently transfixed. Castiel glares back at him. “Do you want to sit down?” Exekiel gestures to the beanbags he and Castiel had bought cheap for the room. Dean seems to snap out of his daze and nods, making his way clumsily over to his seat. Castiel returns to his book, his jaw clenched. He can’t _believe_ Ezekiel thought it wise to invite one of the humans back to their room.

After a few minutes, he glances up to see the human staring at him, mouth agape. Castiel glares again, and the human looks down quickly, his face red. What’s this guy’s problem? What’s his problem with _Castiel_?!

 _Right,_ Castiel reminds himself, _he’s a human, you’re an angel._

_That’s his problem._

But that answer doesn’t really make sense, now that Castiel mulls it over in his mind, dissatisfied. The human is apparently friends with Ezekiel. Who is also an angel. So why the fuck is he staring at Castiel, in particular?

Castiel looks up again. The human is glancing at Castiel; attempting to remain subtle, and failing awfully; his face still a scorched red. It’s almost as amusing as it is endearing. No. Not endearing.

“Dean, I thought you said you were good!” Ezekiel exclaims, laughing. “I’m thrashing you! You suck so badly!”

Castiel snorts, despite himself. If Dean’s face was any redder, it’d be completely ablaze.

“I _am_ good, normally.” The human mumbles self-consciously. “Today must just be an off day, for me.” He looks down, heat still radiating off his face. “Maybe you’re just really good, too.”

Ezekiel glances at Dean.

Understanding flickers across his features for a moment, Castiel thinks; although he doesn’t attempt to understand the human, too—unlike his roommate, people have always rather perplexed Castiel. And he doesn’t want to admit to himself that this particular human— _Dean—_ is somewhat – well, _interesting._

“Are you sure you’re even concentrating? What’s got you so distracted?”

Dean shrinks a little further into his seat. It’s as though he wants the ground to swallow him whole.

“I guess it’s just one of those days.” He shrugs.

“Whatever, we can just chill for a bit, if you’d prefer.”

“That sounds better.” Dean nods, something like relief flooding his features.

Castiel rolls his eyes again. He returns to his book. He clouds out the sound of Dean and Ezekiel’s voices until they are nothing more than a vague humming at the back of his skull.

He is torn away from his page when a pillow is thrown at his head.

“Hey!” He exclaims. “What the fuck was that for?!”

“Dean just asked a question, feather-brain.” Ezekiel deadpans. Castiel resists the urge to scowl at him and instead turns to Dean, who is still apparently finding it an impossible task not to _exist_ and blush furiously in the process.

“Sorry—” Dean stammers. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading—”

“Well, you have, now.” Castiel sighs. Dean’s face crumples with embarrassment. “What were you going to ask?”

“I just—Ezekiel said you were a social activist—”

“That’s right.” Castiel’s jaw clenches. He’s probably going to get a lecture from the human about how the days of racism are over and done with; and he _really_ doesn’t want to have to—

“I just wanted to ask if you’ve ever been on any protests? ‘Cause my brother, Sammy—he’s super passionate over civil rights stuff—he’s always bugging me to take him to marches and stuff—and I just—” Dean doesn’t seem to know how to end this sentence. He shrivels a little further into his seat. Castiel regards him for a moment, squinting slightly—this human is rather unlike any of the others Castiel has ever met—and, judging by his furiously red cheeks, finds it difficult to feel anything other than embarrassed, when speaking.

“I have, yes.” Castiel nods. Dean is fumbling furiously with his hands. “You have a brother?” He asks. Dean looks up, apparently delighted that Castiel has seemingly taken an interest in his life.

“Yeah, he’s four years younger than me.” Dean nods. “He’s super smart.”

“I’m sure.” Castiel nods absently, ready to return to his book—but Dean speaks again. Castiel sighs and looks up.

“Have you got any brothers or sisters?”

“One younger sister.” Castiel states.

“What’s her name?”

Dean is frustratingly persistent.

“Rachel.” Castiel says. “She’s seventeen.”

Dean hums and nods. Castiel lets out an internal sigh of relief. Apparently the human can think of nothing else to speak to him about.

Dean returns to his conversation with Ezekiel—it’s of entirely inconsequential things; and normally Castiel would find it frustratingly mundane, but for whatever reason, he actually sort of wishes he were able to involve himself, again.

He examines Dean, now. The human with a passion for—what, exactly? His brother is the one stated to have a love for social justice, not Dean. So why was Dean so apparently intent on speaking about it, with Castiel?

Dean’s soft green eyes have turned away from Castiel. The angel notes the scattering of freckles across the human’s nose, dappling at his cheeks. He wonders absently how many Dean has. If they’re speckled across any other parts of his body.—Wait—was that a dirty thought about a human? Castiel kicks himself internally. Wrinkles his nose. Bites the inside of his mouth. Looks away.

He glances up again, against his better judgement. Dean glances up at Castiel. Their eyes meet for only a moment, before Dean has blushed furiously, again, and is looking away. Castiel rolls his eyes. For whatever reason, however, he continues examining the human. Watching the way he’ll run a hand through his light brown hair, ruffling it only further; the way that he’ll fumble with his hands and blush if he gets especially nervous; the way that he’ll—

Castiel needs to stop.

Dean is a human. _A human_. And admittedly, he doesn’t seem like an especially bad one—but Castiel has been wrong before, and has no experience telling him that it’s possible to find nice humans; and his ogling of Dean is getting a little ridiculous.

But Castiel has heard of humans who aren’t all that bad. He’s _seen_ plenty of humans on his protests—he just hasn’t _spoken_ to them—but some of them clearly do share some of his interests with the rights of his kind.

“I’m going to get some air.” Castiel states flatly, standing up and leaving his book open on his pillow.

“Good for you.” Ezekiel mimics Castiel’s tone, which only makes Castiel scowl and throw the pillow that had earlier been aimed at him, back at his roommate. It’s a perfect shot. “Hey—!”

Dean snorts out a laugh, earning him a furious glare from both angels. And just like that, the blush on his cheeks has returned. Castiel takes this as an opportunity to close the door behind him—and, he prays, his interest in the human, Dean.

 

…

 

Castiel returns around an hour later. He spent the stretch of time sat in the library, head buried in one of his books. He has decided that it was a good way to use his time. He needed to clear his mind for a time.

He’s never really spoken to any of Ezekiel’s human friends before. It’s been pointed out to him that he cannot—or rather _should_ not—rule out the company of fifty per cent of the college populous; but Castiel can, and he _will._ He has plenty of friends and acquaintances already. He doesn’t want to get into a fight with some prick of a human over whether or not racism still exists— _especially_ when that human will probably argue that they ‘cannot _possibly_ be racist’, all because they go to an integrated university.

Castiel has tried to get to know humans in the past. It’s never gone well. And he’s done trying. And he’s done getting hurt.

 _Everyone’s an asshole_ , Castiel thinks absently to himself. It’s just that humans are even more so than most.

Castiel was raised in an all-angel children’s home. Mixed children's homes were essentially non-existent at the time of his upbringing. The notion of human and angel children living together? In the same _house_? The same _home_? The thought was abominable to humans. Castiel often wonders why they found the thought so terrifying— _human_ children would not be at any risk whilst staying in a home such as that. Angel children, on the other hand?

Castiel’s parents died when he was only a child; killed by human-supremacists. Murdered. That in itself is more than enough of an excuse for Castiel to feel nothing but distrust, fear and dislike towards humans. It’s natural that he should feel wary. Healthy, even, to want to preserve his own life by avoiding them at all costs. He realises that this reasoning paired with the fact that he attends the US’ first fully integrated university is somewhat contradictory; but he doesn’t care. He came to this college as a statement, because of its results, its standards; its nationwide acclaim; because of how many angels had fought and died for equal education rights to humans. Not because he wanted to befriend his oppressors.

So Ezekiel bringing Dean over to the dorm? It’s inconvenient. It’s really fucking inconvenient. Especially if the two of them are going to be nattering away about absolutely nothing of consequence or playing with animated guns and attempting to kill each other on a screen.

Castiel and his sister stayed in the home together. All through his life, there has been only one constant for Castiel. Rachel. Kind, funny, intelligent younger-sister Rachel; for whom Castiel would die without a second thought.

At the age of seven she was assaulted by a group of human boys.

At the age of twelve, Castiel attempted to befriend a human child in his neighbourhood. The child’s father had shouted first at Castiel, then at his son. The boy had told Castiel that he wasn’t allowed to speak to him anymore, and that had been that.

The random police searches, the pushing, the shoving, the belittling comments from those ‘enforcing’ the law. The brutality. The profiling. The stares; the old ladies on the bus shifting their bags away from Castiel; the condescension; the media prejudice; the fearful, disdainful glances from humans when Castiel finds himself in predominantly human-occupied areas; the mockery of his wings and his name and his culture.

There is a reason Castiel dislikes humans. There are several. More than several. And they’re good ones.

Castiel is proud of his wings. They simultaneously receive mockery and envy from humans—Castiel will be belittled for them, and in the same day walk past a costume store with a pair of poorly made out of goose feather, shockingly appropriative and offensive whilst simultaneously incredibly inaccurate, mock-angel wings hung on display at the window. Castiel has learnt to recognise the beauty in his wings. He has persuaded his sister to do the same. They _are_ beautiful; his great jet black wings, her golden-white wings, perfectly matching her hair, stretched out behind them. He is proud of his wings. He _won’t_ be made to feel ashamed.

He pushes open the door to his room. Ezekiel is sat on his bed, tossing his football up into the air, watching it spin above his head, and extending his arms to catch it each time it begins to fall. Dean has gone. Castiel is quietly relieved. And disappointed. The contradiction confuses him.

“Hey,” Ezekiel says from where he lies. He doesn’t bother sitting up, or even glancing at Castiel. Something about his roommate’s tone tells Castiel that Ezekiel wants to have one of his ‘talks’. He sighs internally and begins to mentally prepare himself for whatever it is Ezekiel is going to want to speak in great detail, and at great length, about.

“Hello, Ezekiel.” Castiel replies. “Was your football practice productive?”

It’s a poor attempt to steer conversation away from wherever Ezekiel wants to lead it. And Castiel is sure his roommate sees right through this particular attempt at—well, avoiding any kind of lengthy chat.

“It was okay,” Ezekiel shrugs, glancing up—disillusioned—at the other angel. “As good as it gets. Listen, Cassie, there’s something I really need to talk to you about, do you have a moment?”

“Yes,” Castiel sighs, making his way over to his bed and sitting down. Something tells him that this discussion is going to be a little bit longer than just a ‘moment’. “What is it?”

“It’s about Dean.”

“Your human friend?” Castiel attempts to act as though Dean left as small an impression on his as possible. He isn’t quite certain that it’s successful.

“My human friend.” Ezekiel nods absently, still tossing and catching his football.

“What about him?” Castiel frowns.

“Be nice to him.” Ezekiel says. He looks up at Castiel and stops throwing and catching his ball. “Seriously.”

“Why—”

“Because, Cassie, I like him.”

“You _like_ him?” Castiel repeats, incredulously.

“Not like that.” Ezekiel frowns. “He’s a friend.”

“You’ve only known him—”

“Yeah, and I like him, and I want him to feel comfortable around here.”

“He’s not a _puppy,_ ‘Zeke—”

“But he _is_ delicate. Something tells me. He’s damaged. He’s been hurt.”

“Please, Ezekiel,” Castiel snorts. “You think _everyone’s_ damaged.”

“Everyone _is_.” Ezekiel points out.

“Okay, so if everyone is damaged, why should I treat your Dean any different, in particular?” Castiel frowns.

“Because he’s _especially_ damaged.”

“How do you know?”

“I can just _tell.”_

“Why?”

“He’s been hurt.” Ezekiel shrugs.

“He’s told you this?” Castiel raises his eyebrows over to his roommate.

“He didn’t have to.” Ezekiel shrugs again. Castiel sighs, exasperated.

“You want me to be nice to someone who’s got a ninety per cent chance of being an absolute _asshole,_ just because you’ve got another one of your weird, never-scientifically-proven, _feelings?”_

“Oh my God, Castiel,” Ezekiel exclaims, sitting up on his bed, infuriated. “Just be nice, okay? It’s like living with a _fucking_ child, I’m telling you!” He raises his hands to the ceiling, wringing them as though he is in some way attempting to contact the heavens; begging them to rid him of his apparently insufferable roommate in any way possible.

Castiel sighs with defeat. Rolls his eyes.

“Fine.”

 

…

 

Apparently Ezekiel invites Dean round the following day; because the two of them are playing video games again when Castiel arrives back at his room.

“You really brought your A-game today, huh, Dean?” Ezekiel grins, glancing over to the human as the sound of rapid gunshots and explosions echo from the small TV. “I wonder why it is that there’s been such an improvement from yesterday’s appalling match—maybe you’ve been practicing?” The angel winks over to Dean, who rolls his eyes and grins back.

“Dude, shut-up.” Dean laughs—oddly carelessly—shaking his head. It’s a little strange for Castiel to see the human’s cheeks so un-pink. “You know—”

Dean’s sentence is cut short when he glances behind him and spots Castiel. His voice makes an strange, painful grating sound against his throat, before stopping entirely, and Castiel squints over at the odd little specimen that Ezekiel has chosen to form a friendship with. Ezekiel glances back, too, and gives a closed-lipped, one-sided smile to Castiel.

“Hey, Cassie. Back from your lectures?”

“Apparently.” Castiel nods stiffly, making his way over to his bed and rummaging in the space underneath it for a book. Dean glances down, seemingly eyeing up the great many textbooks, poetry collections and novels Castiel has stacked under there, before drawing his eyes nervously back up to Castiel.

“So… how was your day?” Ezekiel asks in a slightly annoying sing-song voice, apparently unaware that his friend is gaping quite so wide-eyed at Castiel. Honestly. It’s like Dean has never _seen_ an angel before. And if this were the case, Castiel would almost excuse his stares—but Dean goes to a college _filled_ with angels; he’s sitting next to one _right now._

“Alright, I suppose.” Castiel sighs, settling back onto his bed and shifting the pillow so that it rests against the headboard of the bed and serves him as a backrest.

“That good, huh?” Ezekiel smirks. Castiel only rolls his eyes and opens his book, flicking through the pages until he finds where he folded down the corner of one of the pages. He resumes his reading.

Ezekiel sighs and turns back to the TV.

“Well, Dean, I feel like I may suddenly have a significant advantage over you, now.” Ezekiel’s voice seeps with smug humour, and leaves Castiel feeling slightly confused—but he reminds himself that he doesn’t care what his friend and the human are talking about, anyway, and focuses all his attention on the book.

He has read near to a hundred pages when a voice drags him away from his focus on the novel and the world inside of it, and he frowns in confusion and looks up.

 _“Castiel,”_ Ezekiel sighs, punctuating every syllable as clearly as possible. “Come in, Cassie, are you in there?”

Castiel glances over to his roommate, sighing just as loudly as Ezekiel did.

“What is it, Ezekiel?”

“Dean and I were just wondering if you wanted to get some takeout.”

“You were, were you?”

Ezekiel rolls his eyes and apparently decides not to rise to anything.

“Yeah,” He nods. “Would you?”

Castiel glances down to his book again, pressing his lips together. He glances at his watch. It’s nearly eight, he notes with surprise mixed with amusement. Time flies.

“Yes, okay.” He nods. “What were you planning on getting?”

“Chinese, probably.” Ezekiel shrugs. “Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Castiel nods. He glances over at Dean, staring at the book in Castiel’s hand. “Can I help you?” He asks the human, who jerks up, face a furious pink, something of a familiar sight to Castiel, now.

“I just—uh—” He stammers. “Hemingway.” He says, dumbly. Castiel squints. “Hemingway,” Dean repeats, gesturing to the book in Castiel’s hand. “I just—uh—I like him.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, still squinting at the ever blushing human. “I like him too.” He says after a moment’s pause. Dean pulls an oddly pained closed-mouth smile and nods, glancing away, his face still pink. Another pause. “Bit of a misogynist, though. So you’ve read some of his books, then?” Castiel asks.

“What?” Dean jerks up again, eyes flicking back to Castiel. “Oh, yeah—I—” He cuts himself off and swallows. “He’s good. He’s probably my favourite—author, that is—I mean, I don’t read much, but my mom—she liked him… and I like him. I like the way he writes—I don’t know…” He trails off, face more pink than ever, his expression almost distraught with embarrassment. Why is he so embarrassed? Castiel is left perplexed.

“I see,” He nods, frowning softly. “What’s your favourite book of his?”

“I… I don’t really know.” Dean confesses. “Maybe The Sun Also Rises. But I—I like A Farewell to Arms a lot, too.” Dean gestures nervously to the book in Castiel’s hand again. _Why is he so nervous?_

“Yes,” Castiel nods. “I like it, too. This is my fifth time reading it.” He chuckles softly.

“Really?” Dean laughs nervously. “I guess you must really love it.”

Castiel almost smiles.  Almost. There is another pause.

“When you love you wish to do things for. You wish to sacrifice for. You wish to serve.” He mumbles, glancing up at Ezekiel. The other angel rolls his eyes.

“Cassie likes to quote that to me to remind me of why he’s so keen on his social justice stuff.”

“And you’re not keen on it?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Ezekiel. Castiel almost smirks in triumph.

“I’m keen on it plenty.” Ezekiel shrugs. “I can just talk about stuff _other_ than it. And I’m also willing to make friends with humans. Cassie here isn’t.” He says plainly. Castiel glares at Ezekiel as he stands up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna call the takeout place. I’ll assume you’ll want the usual?” He glances over to Castiel, who presses his lips together and nods. “What about you, Dean?” Ezekiel asks, glancing down at Dean, still sat awkwardly at the beanbags.

“I’ll have whatever you’re having…” Dean shrugs nervously.

“Okay,” Ezekiel nods, stepping out of the dorm to make the call. Castiel glares after him. It’s typical of Ezekiel to make a rude, exaggerated point in other people’s company, and it’s awkward, and it’s _inappropriate,_ and it’s—

“I’m not brave any more, darling. I’m all broken. They’ve broken me.” Dean mumbles softly.

“Sorry?” Castiel asks, glancing back over to the human. Dean’s face is red, he is sat, shrivelled, in the beanbag, his expression more anxious than ever.

“My favourite quote from the book. That’s it.”

“Oh,” Castiel says, rather simply. He feels—not unusually, when in the human’s presence—rather confused. “I see.”

“Yours is that one about sacrifice, I guess?” Dean asks, still looking uncomfortable, and barely managing to make eye contact with Castiel. “The one you just said to ‘Zeke – Ezekiel, I mean?”

Castiel can only frown softly back at Dean.

“Well, my favourite is that one.” Dean shrugs, looking down. His face is still a fierce red. His expression makes it look as though he is silently berating himself, inwardly.

“I’m not brave any more, darling. I’m all broken. They’ve broken me.” Castiel repeats softly. Dean looks up. Does hope spark behind his soft eyes? Castiel can’t be sure. But he still ponders on Dean’s eyes for a moment. They’re soft. Sensitive. Hurt. Castiel recalls what Ezekiel told him about Dean—that something has hurt the human. His eyes certainly seem to confirm this story. It’s as though he’s seen too much, suffered too much, felt too much. Perhaps this is why Ezekiel seems to have such an almost paternal instinct when it comes to his companionship with the boy. “That’s a good one.” Castiel nods quietly. A frown pinches at his features. “You feel it describes you, then?” He asks. Dean looks somewhat taken aback.

“I, uh—” He stammers, shifting himself a little away from Castiel on his beanbag. “A little, maybe…” He looks down. “Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, I guess it does. But it’s not—”

“The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” Castiel states softly. Dean’s babbling is cut off entirely. “I would probably say that _that’s_ my favourite quote.” Castiel presses his lips together. “It’s rather a good response to yours. I would like to think that it holds a lot of truth.”

Dean’s face is still tinged a delicate pink. He glances down and mumbles something inaudible. Castiel wants to ask him what he has just said, but reminds himself that he doesn’t— _shouldn’t—_ particularly care. And anyway, if Ezekiel could hear him and Dean now, he’d call them something along the lines of _‘pretentious douchebags’,_ and tell them to pull their heads out of their asses. Honestly. Quoting Hemingway in casual conversation. Even Castiel will admit that that’s pretty douche-y

Castiel doesn’t know why, but his says as much to Dean, who breaks out into nervous laughter. It almost sounds like _giggling_.

“That does sound like something he’d say.” Dean nods, lips playing upwards into a nervous smile.

“Something who’d say?” Ezekiel asks, walking back into the room, a soft frown pinching at his features.

“Nothing.” Dean stammers quickly, shaking his head and looking away from Castiel, to the floor. “It doesn’t matter.”

Ezekiel looks suspicious for a moment, still frowning quietly, but shrugs after a moment and sits down on his bed, facing Castiel and Dean.

“So, food will be here in about forty minutes.” He states, leaning back onto the wall. “What do you guys wanna do in the meantime?”

Dean shrugs.

“I don’t mind.”

“Me neither.” Castiel says, returning to his book. He hears Ezekiel sigh from across the room, probably ready to make a comment about how antisocial Castiel is being, but honestly, the angel doesn’t particularly care. He wants to escape, in any case, as he always has.

 

Dean leaves a couple of hours after their food arrives. Castiel stares at his back as he walks out of the room and through the door, closing it softly behind him. As soon as it is closed, Castiel glances back at Ezekiel.

“What did you mean when you said you thought that Dean had been hurt?” He asks, a frown pinching at his features as he stares curiously at his roommate.

“I don’t know,” Ezekiel shrugs, tossing some of his rubbish into the small bin in the corner of the room. He grins in childish triumph when his trash reaches its target successfully. “Like you said, I think everyone’s broken, don’t I?” He glances back up to Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, still frowning. “But this time I think you’re right.”

“Wow, Cassie,” Ezekiel says, sitting up. His eyes have gone wide with mock-surprise. “I think that’s the first time you’ve _ever said—”_

“Shut up,” Castiel groans, already able to tell what’s coming up.

“Look, Cassie, I don’t know.” Ezekiel shrugs. “And it’s not a subject I’m gonna press—especially with him. But all that it means is we have all the more reason to be nice to him, right?”

“Right.” Castiel sighs, unable to keep himself from rolling his eyes. He can’t promise any niceties to Dean. He doesn’t _want_ to promise any.

 

…

 

Dean visits almost every day after that. He still spends an extraordinary amount of time gaping at Castiel—either that, or blushing furiously. Aside from this; Dean also throws words Castiel is almost certain he doesn’t fully comprehend the meaning of into conversation—words centred around issues of social justice—and for the life of him, Castiel cannot work out why it is Dean would want to do this.

It’s exasperating, definitely; particularly when he hears Dean pronounce these words wrong—he’s _so_ _clearly_ picked them up from a library book—and yet, for whatever reason, Castiel cannot help but be slightly touched in the knowledge that Dean is so childishly enthusiastic over issues of equality and liberation.

One day, after Dean has left subsequent to a mind-numbingly long period of playing video games with Ezekiel, whilst discussing Castiel-isn’t-quite-sure-what, Ezekiel turns to his roommate with an infuriatingly amused grin spread across his face.

“What?” Castiel frowns, perplexed by the delight etched across his roommate’s features.

“ _Dean_.” Ezekiel says simply, as though this should be explanation enough. Castiel rolls his eyes in irritation.

“What about him?” He asks.

Ezekiel laughs.

“You seriously don’t know?!” He grins, shaking his head.

“Clearly,” Castiel frowns, “or else I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

“Dean,” Ezekiel laughs, almost triumphantly. “Is so painfully and obviously in love with you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and looks away.

“No, seriously!” Ezekiel exclaims. “You don’t believe me?! How can you not?—Have you even _seen_ the way he acts around you?! The way he _looks_ at you?! He’s enamoured!”

“He is _not_!” Castiel finds himself raising his voice, for whatever reason, and sitting up on his bed.

“What about the way that he’s always trying to talk to you about angel rights?!” Ezekiel bursts out laughing, now. “He can barely pronounce half the words he’s trying to say—he keeps on talking about it in front of you because he wants to impress you! Fucking hell, Castiel; how can you _not_ see it?!”

Castiel’s face is on fire.

“That’s not—”

“He’s trying so hard to get your attention and your approval, and what’s funniest about all of this is that you have no idea!” Ezekiel grins, clapping his hands in glee. “How could you _be_ _so_ _oblivious_ —?!”

Ezekiel isn’t allowed to continue any further because Castiel has thrown a pillow at his head.

It can’t be true. Except, now that Castiel thinks about it, it definitely is. He can’t fucking deny it. Dean’s behaviour—however frustratingly endearing—points almost certainly to him liking Castiel. More than liking him. And perhaps this explains all the human’s staring. All his odd quirks and clumsy idiosyncrasies, around Castiel.

Dean _likes_ Castiel. And the angel has no idea of how to react. He’s never had a human have a crush on him before—at least, not that he knows of—and Ezekiel seems more than thoroughly convinced that Dean holds more feelings towards Castiel than simply a crush. Fuck. Castiel doesn’t know how to deal with this. He’s never been faced with this situation before.

And what’s infinitely worse than all else about Castiel’s predicament is his answer when he asks himself if he returns Dean’s apparent affections for him.


	3. Be Nice To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: Sex mention/hints, mentions/hints of abuse in a past relationship of Dean's; a lot of self-loathing from Dean
> 
> Next update will hopefully come soon!

 

“Halloween’s coming up.” Ezekiel grins, his head hanging off his bed as he stares at Dean and Castiel, his back against the mattress and legs stretched up against the wall. Castiel thinks absently that it looks a rather uncomfortable position, but Ezekiel doesn’t seem to mind it. He flutters his wings absently as they stretch across the bed, half hanging on, half hanging off his mattress. “You guys excited?”

“I’m dreading it.” Castiel sighs, rolling his eyes. “This is the worst holiday when it comes to racist outfits.”

“Cassie, you’re still allowed to _enjoy_ the holiday—”

“Why is it racist?” Dean asks, frowning quietly up at Castiel. He sits, as usual, on a beanbag between Ezekiel and Castiel’s beds. _Here we go,_ Castiel sighs inwardly, _another argument with a human over what does and doesn’t constitute racism._

“Where do I start?” Castiel groans, shaking his head. “Probably with the amount of humans who thinks it’s funny to wear crappy craft store angel wings; thinking they look cute or cultured or whatever the fuck it is that runs through their mind when they put them on at the beginning of the night—only to _spend_ that night laughing about their costumes and as a result laughing at _us—_ and if you ask me, it really isn’t funny—and then, when the evening’s over, they’re able to take off their ‘wings’; made as a joke, made only to mock our culture, whilst we will _never_ be able to take ours off, and are made to feel as though that in itself is a bad thing. We are shamed for our wings—when we ought to be able to feel _proud_ of them—while you are able to use them as a cheap party joke.”

“It _is_ pretty damn frustrating.” Ezekiel sighs, still upside-down.

“That does sound awful.” Dean frowns softly. Hm. That hadn’t been the response Castiel had expected from the human, honestly. “And that’s—that’s appropriative, isn’t it? Wearing angel wings? That’s like cultural appropriation?”

Castiel is still more surprised. His facial expression probably betrays this, somewhat.

“Yes,” He says, his tone rather stunned. “I suppose it would be.” He blinks for a moment and shakes off his surprise. “But also a whole number of other things. It’s not just the appropriative nature that is frustrating—it’s the mockery; the idea that a human can _pretend_ to be an angel as a joke and never have to face the societal consequences that _truly_ being an angel holds; it’s the idea that our culture is something that _is_ up for being made into a joke whilst we have no opportunities or spaces of our own to do such a thing to humanity; it’s—” Castiel sighs, cutting himself off. “Humans, historically, also used to cut off angel wings—mutilating us—and would wear them as a joke. So there’s that, too. The historical implications are just…” Castiel huffs out another breath. “It’s disgusting, is all.”

“I’m sorry—” Is all Dean finds himself able to say. Castiel’s lip curls bitterly and he looks away. “—That’s terrible—that’s—” He cuts himself off. “I never even made that connection.” He shakes his head. “I mean, I’d studied the history of racism, but I’d never even thought—”

“You never thought because you’d never _had_ to think.” Castiel points out. “Angels have never had that privilege.”

Dean looks down.

“If I see anyone wearing them, this year, I’ll call them out on it.” He says softly. “I mean, it’s really nothing, but it’s the least I can do.”

Castiel presses his lips together.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly.

 

…

 

 

“Are you gonna come to the Halloween party tonight?” Ezekiel asks, pulling on a sweater and stepping into his worn sneakers, before bending down and tugging the heels on properly.

“I don’t know.” Castiel shrugs, biting a yawn onto his closed fist. “We’ll see.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cassie, it’ll be fun!”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You sound rather certain of that.”

“Yeah,” Ezekiel grins. “That’s ‘cause it’s a party. They’re _meant_ to be fun by definition.”

“Well, I haven’t even got a costume. So how am I meant to go, anyway? I’d ruin the spirit of the holiday.”

“Just paint yourself green and tell everyone you’re a zombie. That’s what I did last year.”

“I’m surprised you can actually _remember_ what you did last year.”

“I wasn’t _that_ bad.” Ezekiel frowns in protest. Castiel cocks an eyebrow up in his roommate’s direction. Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “I really wasn’t…” He shakes his head. “I’ve been much worse, before.”

“I know.” Castiel laughs, pulling on his own boots. “I’ve had to clean up your puke before. And help you back here. And sometimes, I’ve even had to _carry_ you.”

“Wow,” Ezekiel chuckles, attempting to cover his amusement by huffing out a loud sigh, “I guess I must be really lucky to have you as a friend.”

“You really are.” Castiel grins. Ezekiel snorts and reaches out to ruffle Castiel’s hair.

“Come, tonight. You might enjoy it.”

Castiel pauses a moment, humming thoughtfully.

“I’ll think about it.” He sighs.

“Good,” Ezekiel grins. “That basically means you’re halfway there.”

Castiel snorts and shakes his head.

“You’ll have to come up with something more creative than just a zombie costume for me to wear to get me to come, though.” He teases. Ezekiel laughs and shakes his head affectionately, pushing Castiel lightly on his shoulder and out of the room.

“I’ll make it today’s mission.” He chuckles lightly. _“Think of something for Castiel to wear for Halloween.”_ He says in a mock secretarial tone.

“Something scary.” Castiel reminds as he and Ezekiel head down opposite directions of the corridor.

 _“Something scarier than his own face.”_ Ezekiel calls down after Castiel, his voice still mock-clerical. Castiel snorts and rolls his eyes.

 

That evening, when he gets back to the dorm, Ezekiel is in full pirate-zombie gear. He wears a wild, childish grin, and is apparently adding the final touches to his costume when Castiel opens the door.

“You’re going as a pirate _and_ a zombie?” Castiel raises his eyebrows, unable to keep the mirth from his tone as he steps over to his bed, over the piles of clothing that Ezekiel has left sprawled out over the floor.

“Don’t be so quick to take the piss,” Ezekiel grins, spinning round to face Castiel. “Chicks love it—they love pirates—I mean, who doesn’t—plus it’s Halloween, so you’ve gotta be slightly scary—hence the zombie—and they’ll love the entertainment provided by the fact that I am _both_ a pirate _and_ a zombie. My costume in itself is an icebreaker!”

“Wow,” Castiel says dully. “You’ve really thought this through.” Ezekiel’s grin doesn’t lessen any at this. A soft frown pinches at Castiel’s features. “Why are you—”

“And you’re gonna be wearing one, too.” Ezekiel finishes, giggles saturating his words as he tosses a hat down onto Castiel’s lap.

_“No.”_

“ _Yes_.” Ezekiel practically beams. “We’re gonna have matching costumes—me, you, and do you remember Gabriel—?”

“Not _Gabriel_ —”

 _“Yes,_ Gabriel.”

“Ezekiel, please—”

“You asked me to find you a costume.”

“Yes, but not like this.” Castiel shakes his head, his tone pleading. “Never like _this.”_

Ezekiel’s laughter bubbles off his lips.

“This is gonna be hilarious.”

“Yes, for the two of _you._ It’s going to be _painful_ for me.”

“What’s that phrase? About the way the cookie crumbles?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“It’s been said.” Castiel’s roommate positively beams.

 

…

 

Three hours later, and Castiel is in full zombie-pirate gear, an eye-patch over one of his eyes and a painfully cruddy false-parrot attached to his shoulder. He has refused to let Ezekiel paint his face with the green hue that now tinges both Ezekiel and Gabriel’s faces; purely on the grounds that he looks stupid enough _already._ He isn’t about to make it any worse. He drew the line when Ezekiel started painting false wounds onto his body and adding fake blood to them. He almost managed to wriggle out of putting on eerie, unnatural coloured contact lenses. Almost.

“We look so cool, guys.” Ezekiel grins, ruffling his hair up one last time before pulling on his sneakers. “We’re gonna be the highlight of _everyone’s_ night, tonight.”

“Do pirates traditionally wear sneakers?” Castiel asks, cocking an eyebrow in his roommate’s direction as he glances down at Ezekiel’s choice of footwear. Ezekiel responds by grinning and waving his hand in an obscene gesture at Castiel.

“This one does, clearly.” He laughs as Castiel sighs and glances in the mirror. “You look great, Cassie, don’t worry about it.” He rolls his eyes. “Who’re you trying to impress, anyway?”

“Nobody. I’m just trying to maintain _some_ element of my dignity.” Castiel groans at his reflection. He really hates Halloween.

“Dignity is overrated.” Gabriel shrugs, tugging on his boots—which are admittedly a far more suitable choice of footwear than Ezekiel’s, considering their costumes. “And are you _sure_ you’re not trying to impress anyone, Castiel?” He grins widely over to the dark haired angel, who sigs again and rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Gabriel.” He replies. “Why?”

“I just thought you might have a thing for a certain someone.” He waggles his eyebrows. “Do you know who I’m talking about? I think you do-oo!” He exclaims in a frustrating sing-song voice. Castiel’s stomach drops all the way into his gut. “I’ve seen you making eyes at them—checking them out.” He almost _giggles_ at Castiel.

“Who?” Ezekiel asks, grinning widely. “Who is it?”

 _“Meg.”_ Gabriel bursts out laughing. “Meg who takes shit from _no one,_ Masters. Good luck with that one, buddy. She’s beautiful as _fuck,_ but—”

Relief floods Castiel.

And yes, what Gabriel is saying is very true—Meg is beautiful; and she and Castiel get along rather well, which is both surprising and brilliant considering the fact (a fact that Castiel acknowledges without a shred of reluctance) that he isn’t the easiest person in the world to get along with. And Meg—yes, Meg is brilliant, too. Castiel doesn’t admit that with any reluctance either. He says as much.

And it’s also true that he Meg and Castiel flirt rather a lot—but it’s not been something that Castiel has thought of pursuing, much. Meg is—she’s great, but she’s not… Castiel’s mind wanders off to thoughts of green eyes and warm, soft laughs and a voice like warm apple pie and— _what the fuck. No. No, fuck this,_ he thinks to himself. _Fuck._

“You know what, I might go for it with Meg.” He shrugs. “Not tonight, though, but maybe another time. I’m pretty into her, and _she’s_ pretty into me, so—”

“Oh my _God,_ Castiel, you’re so fucking conceited.” Ezekiel groans.

“It’s not conceited if it’s true.” Castiel frowns softly.

“Ugh, whatever,” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “—Arrogant, then—”

“No, Cassie is right—Meg eye-fucks Castiel right back every time he does it to her. It’s like, crazy sexual tension.” Gabriel shrugs.

“But Castiel has sexual tension with _everyone”_ Ezekiel points out. “— _Ever._ Like, the list of people he doesn’t have that massive _we-should-so-totally-fuck_ vibe with, I could list on one hand.”

“Not true, Dude.” Gabriel shakes his head. “At least half of this college he’s already ruled out because they’re humans. That’s way more than just five.”

“Oh, that’s true.” Ezekiel admits absently.

“No, it’s not.” Castiel scowls.

“Oh, come on, Cassie—you’re meaning to tell me that there’s a human out there you _would_ sleep with?”

Castiel shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t—”

“Really?” Gabriel grins in an emotion almost mirroring that of delight. “What human? Seriously, Cassie? You’d _go there?_ Wow—character development _overload_ over here—which human?”

It’s like the fates have it in for Castiel and want him to face nothing but mirth from Gabriel and Ezekiel for the rest of his life, because the moment these words are out of Gabriel’s mouth, Dean opens the door to the room and walks in, dressed as some kind of cowboy—which shouldn’t be hot, it _really_ shouldn’t, but it _is,_ and Castiel could _die._

 _“No.”_ Castiel says, perhaps a bit too forcefully, but thankfully neither Ezekiel nor Gabriel are paying all that much attention; they are both fixated on taking the piss out of Dean, apparently.

“Dude, what the hell _are_ you?!” Ezekiel bursts out laughing.

“I could ask you the same question.” Dean grins good-naturedly, chuckling softly.

“I’m a zombie-pirate, duh!” Ezekiel almost _giggles._ “What are _you?!”_

“I’m Clint Eastwood, obviously!” Dean laughs back. “Is it not obvious?”

 _“No!”_ Ezekiel laughs louder. “And Halloween is meant to be _scary—”_

“Yeah, ‘cause you dressed as a ‘zombie-pirate’ has me almost _pissing_ myself with fear.” Dean rolls his eyes sarcastically and pushes gently past Castiel’s roommate. Castiel cannot help but laugh, and Dean appears to notice the angel for the first time since he came in—he looks somewhat surprised.

“I thought you weren’t gonna—” He stammers out. Castiel shrugs, but before Dean has time to finish his sentence, Gabriel has interrupted him.

“Cassie, you can’t laugh at Dean’s joke, you know— _you’re_ dressed as a pirate, too.”

Dean chuckles somewhat sheepishly while Castiel fixes Gabriel with the stoniest glare he can muster.

“At least he hasn’t gone for the green skin look, like you guys.” Dean points out. “You look kind of sick, you know.”

Castiel laughs again, despite himself. Dean looks quietly elated.

“Whatever, dude—I thought you were on our side.” Gabriel rolls his eyes, picking out the bottle of rum he brought along with them to drink. “This looks like some kind of— _mutiny_.” He grins widely, before bursting out laughing. Ezekiel is apparently so offended by the joke that he throws a pillow at Gabriel’s head.

“So, Castiel,” Ezekiel turns to his roommate, ignoring Gabriel’s loud cry of protest. “—You think you’re gonna wait it out with you and Meg? Not try and get with her tonight?”

Castiel feels suddenly uncomfortable again. He doesn’t miss the way Dean’s face tinges with pink at Ezekiel’s question.

“Meg?” Dean asks stiffly, clearly feigning light hearted interest. “Who’s she?”

Castiel chooses to ignore Dean.

“I don’t even know if she’s _going,_ Ezekiel. And anyway, she and I are friends, and I don’t _want_ anything right now—”

“That doesn’t stop you getting off with someone at a party, though.” Gabriel points out. “And she’s a pretty laid-back girl, so—”

“Let’s just go.” Castiel says stiffly, his face still heated—although he is sure this doesn’t show; he glances in the mirror to confirm that he still at least _looks_ unembarrassed.

“Fine.” Ezekiel and Gabriel both shrug in unison as they open the door again.

Castiel doesn’t miss Dean’s crestfallen expression, or the way he apparently _refuses_ to look at anything but the ground, on their way out of the building. An ugly guilt combined with a mortifying longing coild sharply in Castiel’s stomach.

 

…

 

It is a late evening of mid-November, and Dean—as usual—lies across his front, in the space inbetween Castiel and Ezekiel’s beds on their respective sides of the room, resting his chin on his palms. He is angled toward Ezekiel, which equally comes as no surprise or change in routine.

Castiel hasn’t been listening to any of their conversation for hours, anyway. He’s been reading. As Ezekiel so constantly points out, Castiel is _always_ reading. But every now and then, Castiel will dip into conversation with Dean and Ezekiel. Not everything that they talk about is mindlessly boring, after all—in fact, conversations with Dean seem increasingly interesting to Castiel, and it’s frustrating to an endless extent.

Dean sits up and crosses his legs beneath him. He rests back on his palms.

“I don’t know, I never went on any marches with them. Dad always said I was too young.”

“I bet that went down a storm with your mom.” Ezekiel snorts. Dean’s lips are lifted up into a crooked, warm smile and he rolls his eyes.

“You bet it did.” He laughs. “It sparked a lot of heated debate in my house, you can probably guess.”

Castiel puts down his book and listens a little more intently.

“I bet it did.” Ezekiel grins. “What did your mom say to your dad?”

“She was all _I can’t believe you aren’t prepared to let our son go to marches for_ human _rights, John—you’re part of the problem!”_ Dean puts on a higher, angrier voice to his normal one, and Ezekiel bursts out laughing. “And then my dad would be all _just think about all the things that could go wrong, Mary—he’s just a kid! What next, bringing_ Sammy _along, too?!”_ Dean puts on a far lower, rougher voice, and Ezekiel’s giggles almost drown out Dean’s words. “And their fights would get so damn heated, you have no idea—and all because mom just wanted to take me on marches for angel rights.”

Castiel frowns.

“So you never went on one?” Ezekiel asks.

“Never got to.” Dean shakes his head, shrugging. “In the end, my parents would wear themselves out from fighting, make up—like they always did—and mom would decide that it would be best to wait ‘til the next big one. Every time, that would happen.”

“Your parents campaigned for angel rights?” Castiel frowns. Dean looks up from where he sits. He starts fumbling with his hands nervously, his face flushing quickly with pink.

“You didn’t know that?” Ezekiel frowns across to Castiel, from where he lies on his bed. Castiel glares at him before turning to Dean and raising his eyebrows at the human, encouraging him to speak up.

“—Yeah.” Dean nods, seeming slightly taken aback that Castiel is speaking to him so directly—which, to be fair, is a pretty rare thing for Castiel to do. “—I mean, my mom did. My dad was a marine and not home much, so when he _was_ home, he preferred to spend his time with his family, free of drama and distractions and all that, you know, but—” Dean cuts himself off, blushing. “—Sorry.” He shakes his head. “I’m babbling.”

Castiel ignores the urge to press a kiss to the ridge of Dean’s nose.

“That’s fine.” He shakes his head, frowning slightly. Dean doesn’t seem to think so—he looks down, his ears an impossible shade of pink, hands trembling slightly.

“My parents did, too.” Castiel states, attempting to regain Dean’s attention. It works—Dean looks up, his face apparently beginning to cool down a bit, and gives Castiel a look that seems to be encouraging him to continue. “They, uh—they were very politically involved.”

“Castiel seemed to pick it up from them.” Ezekiel grins. This comment earns him another glare.

“Well, it’s a good thing that I did.” Castiel frowns.

“What makes you say that?” Dean asks, his big, jade eyes fixed on Castiel. The angel regards him slowly.

“My parents were killed by human supremacists.” Castiel states, plainly. Dean looks embarrassed and uncomfortable again.

“Oh—” He stammers. “—Sorry—”

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes and looks back down to the revision book in his lap.

“—Um—” Dean sputters again. Castiel doesn’t look up. “—Extremists killed my mom and dad, too.”

Now, Castiel looks up.

“What?” He frowns.

“Uh—they were kind of pissed at my mom, I think—thought she was some kind of traitor, or whatever—and set fire to our home.”

“Oh.” Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He doesn’t quite know what the appropriate thing is to say. “—But you survived?”

Whatever the appropriate thing was, it wasn’t that.

Ezekiel seems to think so, too—he glares at Castiel as Dean avoids eye-contact with both of them.

“My dad handed me my brother, Sammy, and told me to run, when the flames weren’t too big.” Dean explains. “Then he ran back inside to find my mom, to get her out of there; and he didn’t come back.”

“Oh.” Castiel says, again. He feels painfully stupid. Uncomfortable. Guilty. “I’m sorry—”

Dean shrugs and fiddles with a seam on his worn jeans. It’s as though he can’t bring himself to look at Castiel, any more.

“Dean,” Ezekiel says suddenly, looking away from Castiel. “How about we go and get some pizza? I’m starved.”

“Okay.” Dean nods, straightening up a little. “Does Cas—”

“He’s fine.” Ezekiel glances back up at Castiel. Gives him a hard, reprimanding look. Dean nods and stands. “It’s on me,” Ezekiel states. “If you wanna wait outside while I find my wallet.”

“Alright.” Dean nods. He exits, stealing an embarrassed glance in Castiel’s direction, before closing the door behind him.

Castiel frowns when he notices Ezekiel pull out his wallet from his back pocket and check how much money it contains.

“Why did you—”

“Sooner or later, Castiel,” Ezekiel interrupts, looking up at Castiel and glaring at him. “You’re going to have to admit that Dean is actually a decent guy—human or not. And you’re gonna have to stop being a dick to him.”

Castiel is taken aback.

“What—”

“Just stop.” Ezekiel sighs, rubbing his palm over his face and standing. “You made him really fucking uncomfortable today, not for the first time. Just stop.” He repeats.

Castiel feels more guilt worm up, ugly, inside of him. He doesn’t know how to respond. And Ezekiel has exited before he’s given the chance.

 

…

 

 

Dean had been wrong. He would _not_ be getting over this crush in no time. Let alone in the following week. It’s nearly the Christmas break, Dean having known Castiel and Ezekiel for well over three months, and Dean is _still_ not over it. He should just stop coming over to their dorm. He should stop accepting Ezekiel’s invitations round. The thing is, Dean finds himself increasingly _wanting_ to go over. So if he’s asked, of _course_ he’s not gonna decline.

And why does he increasingly want to go round? Well, he could lie and say it’s just because he’s friends with Ezekiel. Because he enjoys the guy’s company. And that _would_ be true—it’s just… Well, it wouldn’t be the _whole_ truth.

It’s ‘cause of Castiel. Because Castiel is everything that Dean _does_ need when he _shouldn’t,_ everything he wants that he knows he will never, ever, be able to have. When Dean visits ‘Zeke’s dorm, and Castiel is there, Dean has to work _very_ hard to make sure he doesn’t spend all his time staring at the guy. He can’t help but be so _fascinated_ by the way that Castiel moves; how smooth and subtle and elegant his gestures will be in one moment, then how awkward and dorkish and _adorable_ they’ll be in the next.

And Dean can’t even speak to the guy. He doesn’t know what to say—and even if he did, Castiel doesn’t want to talk to Dean, _anyway._ So Dean and his crush are utterly and entirely screwed. And everything sucks.

Of course, not being able to speak to Castiel doesn’t stop Dean from trying. He tries _very_ hard. Ever since learning that Castiel is interested in social activism, Dean has been reading up on it like crazy. When he calls Sammy, he’ll actually start up conversation on it—which of course, Sam is _delighted_ about. Hell, Dean can hardly _pronounce_ most of the words he’ll end up spewing out in an attempt to impress the apathetic angel, but he carries on trying, anyway. It has little or no effect. It’s really fucking embarrassing.

If nothing else, though, Dean has at least _learnt_ in the process. Things are a lot shittier than he’d ever made them out to be—and honestly, if he’d _understood_ why Castiel hated humans to begin with; after all of his reading, he kind of _agrees_ with the guy.

Which basically means that he’s had a tiny glimpse into Castiel’s mind; and has been able to see even further why it is that the angel will _never ever_ like him. So the chances of Castiel returning Dean’s feelings are roughly in the minus one-hundreds region on a scale of one to ten.

But none of this stops Dean crushing on the guy like nothing else. He has it bad. Really bad.

And Castiel—well, he’s apparently having none of it. Dean will attempt, pitifully, to make conversation with the guy; and ninety per cent of the time he’ll be met with a stony glare. That other ten per cent of the time, Dean will only be met be still, stoic, indifferent features. He honestly doesn’t think he’s _ever_ seen Castiel smile. And he’s been spending quite a lot of time round and Ezekiel’s room, of late. On top of this, paired with that nine to one chance of being met with a glare that could kill from five hundred paces, Dean is more often than not met with _no_ verbalresponse from Castiel _at all._ Nothing. Not even an acknowledgement that he’s just spoken. Just the glare.

Dean needs to learn to shut the fuck up.

The problem is; he can’t. And he can’t stop throwing long words into his conversations with ‘Zeke in the hope that Castiel will hear and be impressed. And whenever he _does_ manage to talk to Castiel, he’ll stumble over even the words that he _can_ pronounce normally. It’s all so painfully embarrassing. Dean will be screaming at himself inside of his head to stop, to shut the fuck up, to stop bothering the guy, to quit while he’s ahead; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, but he just _can’t._ His mouth keeps running away from him.

And so that was where he’d been left, just an hour previously, when round at Castiel’s dorm, once again trying fruitlessly to speak to the guy.

It had got to the point where Dean didn’t even understand what he’d been _trying_ to say—and Ezekiel had been forced to save him. Well, what was left of him.

Shortly after that, Dean had left. He’s never been so embarrassed. And lately, he’s gotten pretty used to remaining pretty constantly embarrassed. God, he’s such a dork. He hates himself. He really does.

And what’s more, as Dean thinks about it, the more he realises how very little he actually _deserves_ Castiel—and this ‘very little’ is essentially not at all. Dean doesn’t deserve Castiel at all. Dean is stupid and whore-ish and selfish; and Castiel—well, he’s _Castiel._ As far as he can tell, Dean is pretty sure that the angel would _die_ for the causes he believes in. All of which are good causes. And Dean—Dean isn’t sure he believes in _anything_ anymore. Definitely not himself. Not in a god, not in an afterlife or any bigger picture or anything to make all of the shit in this life even _moderately_ worth it; and Dean is starting to think that there isn’t any point to anything, anymore. And most of that can probably be pinned on the fact that once upon a time, Dean had been convinced that there was something more to his life. That he would meet his mommy and daddy in heaven one day. And then _so much shit_ happened; and Dean lost his faith in everything—and even if there _was_ a heaven, Dean wouldn’t deserve to go there, anyway. Dean is stupid. Dean is ugly. Dean is sluttish. Dean is worthless.

He’s heard _these_ words enough time to know that they’re true, too.

Dean is bad. Dean can’t obey. Dean can’t be good. And because of this, he doesn’t _deserve_ anything good. He deserves to hate himself; he deserved to have his parents die, and it’s his fault they did, anyway.

These words play on repeat in his mind like an old record that’s been scratched and battered up and keeps making ugly, jerking, scratching noises. Sometimes it’s his voice that’s saying them to him; other times it isn’t. Other times it’s—

Dean trips on a paving tile left sticking slightly out of the ground at an awkward angle. He scrapes his hands on the hard pavement in front of him, bits of grit and dirt stinging his hands and the resulting scrapes across them. He examines his wounds and watches a bead of scarlet blood swell out of one of the larger cuts, sliding slowly down his palm and onto his wrist. He wants to cry. He feels like an idiot—he wants to cry because he fell over, he’s such a fucking _child_ —but he so badly wants to cry.

He trudges up to his dorm and barely registers Benny’s hello as he slumps onto his bed and wishes the world would fold in on him; giving up on Dean just as much as he has given up on himself.

 

…

 

“You okay, Dean?” Ezekiel asks, clapping Dean on the shoulder as he changes after practice. Dean presses his lips together and tries not to close his eyes or wince or flinch back away from the angel. _Ezekiel isn’t Alastair_ , he reminds himself. _You’re okay with being touched by guys, just not by Alastair. And not like_ that _. Not anymore._ “You seemed a little lost out there.”

Ezekiel is referring to Dean’s play today; which had been, to put it lightly, not his best. Dean will probably get kicked off of the team, which is basically all he has in this college. It wouldn’t surprise him. He misses his family.

“I’m sorry—” He shakes his head, anxiety clenching at his gut. “I just—”

“No need to apologise, brother.” Ezekiel shrugs, squeezing Dean’s shoulder. “We all have bad days.”

Dean snorts bitterly, despite himself. _More like bad_ week. _More like bad_ life, he thinks absently.

“We do,” He nods, swallowing thickly. “I’m sorry.”

“I just said you don’t need to apologise,” Ezekiel laughs, shaking his head. Dean flushes, another apology pressed at his lips, ready to slip off his tongue, but Ezekiel continues before he can get it out. His face is burning. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks. Me and Cassie have missed you.”

Dean knows that this is a lie. It rings falseness in his ears and it almost hurts.

“Do you want to come round to ours after you’re done changing? Do you have much to do, today?”

“Not much,” Dean shakes his head—why is he saying yes to this? He knows that Castiel doesn’t miss him; he knows that Castiel doesn’t even take any _notice_ of him—and he knows that Ezekiel only feels _sorry_ for him. Dean’s company is not desirable. Dean’s personality is not desirable. Dean’s _body_ might be pretty—but really, he isn’t worth _shit—_

“So you’ll come round?” Ezekiel beams. The angel’s expression almost wanes off Dean’s anxiety and self-loathing. Almost.

“Okay,” Dean nods. “Yeah, I will.”

“Awesome!” Zeke grins, clapping Dean on his shoulder once again and tugging off his own shirt as he makes his way over to the showers. Dean takes a deep breath. Allows his eyes to flicker closed for a moment. He wonders absently if Ezekiel really _does_ want to sit in Dean’s company. He hopes so. He feels a little bit too alone to be able _not_ to hope.

…

Upon arrival into Ezekiel and Castiel’s dorm, Dean is reminded of exactly why it was he’d been avoiding the place so desperately to begin with. He feels his insides crumple a little as he walks through the door, after Ezekiel. Castiel is—well, he’s stretched out on top of a dark wavy haired angel with wings the same colour as his own, his hips set into a dirty grind against hers, her legs wrapped around his waist.

They’re both clothed; thank _fuck,_ they’re both clothed—but _shit-shit-shit_ , it still _hurts_. It hurts Dean a lot to see, and he doesn’t know _why_ he should be hurt—because of course Castiel is gonna get with girls – and guys, for that matter—and of course that’s fair of him, and Dean has no right in hell to be hurt—but he still _is._ And he can’t help but feel immensely jealous of the chick getting her face ravaged by Castiel’s lips; he can’t help but wish _he_ was the one getting his lips kissed raw, smiling against Castiel’s mouth as the angel presses his tongue against Dean’s; he can’t help but wish that _he_ was the one Castiel was dry-humping.

 _“Castiel!”_ Ezekiel exclaims, so loudly that Dean is sure he feels the foundations of the building tremor with the angel’s volume and mortification. “What the _fuck?!”_

Castiel pulls back, glancing up at Ezekiel—taking absolutely _no_ notice of Dean; and again, Dean shouldn’t be hurt by this, but he _is._ Castiel’s breath is rough and rugged as he pants, lips mere inches away from his— _lover’s?_

“Hey, ‘Zeke,” The girl grins, somewhat deliriously, sitting up slightly and running a hand through her mussed-up hair. “Sorry we didn’t put a sock on the door, or anything—we were just—” She giggles again as Castiel bends forward to press a kiss to her swollen lips, “—busy.” She finishes, expression giddy and lethargic.

 _“Meg?”_ Ezekiel raises his eyebrows at the girl in disbelief. _“Really?”_

“Yes, really.” Castiel frowns, sitting up slightly—making absolutely _no_ effort to mask his hard-on; and _wow,_ Dean isn’t even this open with _Sammy._ “What’s the issue?”

Meg sits up after Castiel, her eyes still trained on his lips, the lazy smile still stretched across her features. Dean thinks he recognises her from some of his lectures.

“A freshman, Cassie?” Ezekiel sighs. “Isn’t that just a _bit_ creepy, at our age?”

“I don’t think it’s creepy at all.” Castiel frowns, shaking his head. “And _you_ were the one that suggested I got with her.” He reminds.

“I don’t think it’s creepy either,” Meg shakes her head. “I actually think it’s kind of hot that good ol’ Clarence here is just a few years older than me. Makes him that little bit more fatally attractive.”

Castiel’s eyes spark with amusement and he leans forward to kiss Meg again, his expression devoured with lust. Dean presses his lips together. Something inside of him splinters.

“C’mon,” Ezekiel mumbles, tugging at Dean’s jacket sleeve. “Let’s get out of here. It’s best to just leave them to it, at times like these.”

Dean nods and looks away, tearing his eyes off of Castiel, sucking kisses down Meg’s neck as she laughs giddily above him.

“He uh—he brings people round often?” Dean asks, when they are back out onto the corridor.

“She’s the third person this week.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “I think Castiel is trying to fuck everyone in the whole college by the end of the semester.”

“Well,” Dean swallows, a frown pinching at his features. “Every _angel.”_

“Every angel,” Ezekiel agrees absently, nodding softly. He glances over to Dean and presses his lips together. “Y’know, I’ve got a buddy who has a stash of booze and weed in his closet, just for moments like these. How about we go pay him a visit?”

Dean nods, his stomach twisting murkily inside of him. Yes, getting stoned sounds good. Getting drunk sounds better. _Both?_ Well, it might actually be enough to get rid of the burning sense of jealousy and hurt searing through him, right now.

 

Ezekiel and Dean return to the dorm a couple of hours later. Dean is beginning to sober up. The whole room smells of sex. Meg is sat on Castiel’s bed smoking a joint. She is wearing an old, oversized T-shirt that _must_ belong to Castiel, and a pair of grey boxers that _definitely_ belong to Castiel. She winks and grins at Dean like the two of them are in some great big secret and she has no idea how much all of this is hurting him. Dean exits pretty soon after. The burn of tears sting at his eyes on the whole walk back to his own room.


	4. If You're Happy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Sex scene ahead, not hugely graphic but still.

“He’ll be fucking someone else in no time, trust me.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes as he and Dean stroll across the lawns, toward the block of dormitories where a friend of ‘Zeke’s is apparently having a party. “It’s _always_ the same. In they come, out they go. And they don’t even seem _sad_ that they’re just a casual fuck. It’s weird. Cassie manages to do it without hurting _anybody’s_ feelings.”

Not true, Dean thinks bitterly. But why should _his_ feelings be considered in all of this, anyway? Dean is _nothing_ to Castiel; and he’s nothing, _anyway_.

“I think it’s his awkwardness combined with unsophisticated grace that wins them over.” Ezekiel says matter-of-factly, shaking his head. “I reckon it’s a move I should work on.”

Dean knows that Ezekiel is attempting to make him feel better, but he’s failing dismally. Dean sighs softly to himself, glancing away. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He doesn’t want to talk about _Castiel._

“Anyway, you probably don’t wanna talk about this,” Ezekiel shrugs, like he can read Dean’s thoughts with no more effort than he could have had they been scrawled on a blank page in fluorescent ink. He looks up, examining the darkening sky ahead of them, pinks and oranges seeping into dark, dull blues, before glancing back over at Dean. “I can tell when I’m doing a shitty job of cheering someone up, and I’m failing _miserably_ right now.”

“You’re not—”

“You don’t need to lie, Dean.” Ezekiel barks out a laugh. “Not on my count.” He grins, shaking his head affectionately. Dean smiles. Even if he feels like shit, he can’t help but think how extraordinarily lucky he is to have a friend in Ezekiel. “Anyway, I thought you said you were going to get over him?”

“What makes you think that I haven’t?” Dean frowns defensively.

“I saw your face when we walked in on Meg and Cassie, you know. You looked _cut up.”_

“Well, looks can be deceiving.” Dean’s chest tightens as he speaks.

“Not _that_ deceiving.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “And why are you so attracted to him, anyway? He’s an asshole. In the most affectionate way possible, my roommate is an _asshole.”_

“I’ve noticed.” Dean sighs, tugging open the door to the building and holding it open for Ezekiel. “But he’s—I don’t know. I just like him, you know? When he _does_ talk—he’s easy to talk to—”

“No offence, Dean, but when you talk to Cas, it looks anything _but_ easy.”

“I don’t mean it like that.” Dean shakes his head, growing exasperated. “I can’t put it into words—”

“Sounds like what you’re normally like with Cas.” Ezekiel grins. Dean stops short on the corridor and hits Ezekiel on the shoulder. “Hey!” He exclaims, grinning.

“You deserved that.” Dean scowls.

“Maybe I deserved to get _hit,_ yeah, but not that _hard.”_ Ezekiel laughs. Dean swallows and looks away.

“You’re an asshole too, you know that?”

“Yeah, it’s why me and Cassie get along so well. And so badly.” Ezekiel shrugs. Dean glances back to him and frowns, confused. “It’s a complex relationship.” Ezekiel laughs again.

“Whatever.” Dean rolls his eyes. “All I mean is—when I talk to Castiel—I don’t know. I feel like I’m not being judged for the person that I am. And I know I exasperate the hell out of him—”

“—I think we all do, to be honest—”

“—But he’s _kind,_ deep down. He’s a good person. And excluding you, I haven’t gotten to know many people like that outside of my family.”

“So you like him because he’s a good person?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows, unconvinced.

“You’re useless at understanding this stuff.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“You like him because he’s such a stark contrast to someone else you knew? As in, _knew,_ knew _?_ ” Ezekiel asks. Dean’s insides freeze.

“I never told—”

“I read between the lines.” The angel shrugs.

“It’s none of your business, between-lines or not.” Dean finds himself speaking through gritted teeth. Ezekiel raises his hands in the air in a sign of surrender.

“I didn’t mean to probe to far, dude, I just wanted to work out _why._ I’m sorry.”

Dean looks down.

“That’s okay.” He mutters. “It’s not just that.” He looks back up at the angel. “Saying it like that makes it sound like I only like him because he’s _not_ like Al—”

He cuts himself off. He doesn’t want to say that name out loud.

“I get it, man.” Ezekiel nods. “You like him because you think he’s exactly what you need. What you _really_ need.”

“…Yeah.” Dean finds himself nodding, surprised that Ezekiel was able to put it so right. Even _Dean_ hadn’t been able to figure it out. “I guess that’s it.”

“But he’s not.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “He’s really not, Dean. I know this sounds pretty brutal, but you’ve gotta get over it. Cassie—he won’t pay you any mind, good human or otherwise. He’s—he’s got such a crammed, swirling brain anyway—the people in his life that he actually pays constant concern to?—Well, there’s very few of them. And you—”

“I’m not his type.” Dean sighs, finishing Ezekiel’s sentence for him. “I know.”

He’s heard it all enough times before, anyway.

“I’m sorry.” Ezekiel says gently as the two of them begin to start walking down the corridor again.

“Sorry?” Dean repeats, frowning. “Why are you sorry?”

“I don’t know.” The angel shrugs. “Probably ‘cause I think you’re one of the few people on this planet that _deserves_ happiness, and somehow never seems to get it.”

“There are lots of people on the planet like that.” Dean points out. “And happiness isn’t about external forces, anyway. It’s an outlook.”

“You sound like such a freakin’ hippy.” Ezekiel bursts out laughing.

“Anything that keeps me as close to relative-contentment as I can get.” Dean shrugs. His smile feels false and self-deprecating.

“Speaking of, I think we should get you laid tonight, Dean.” Ezekiel grins as the two of them turn the corner to round up the stairs of the building.

Sat at the base of these stairs are Castiel and Meg, as if on cue, practically sucking each other’s lips off.

 _“’Just a one-time thing’”_ Dean mutters bitterly. He casts a furious glance back at Ezekiel, whose face has turned a blistered red, and his lip begins curling as he stomps up the stairs of the block, past the blissfully unaware couple. _“’Never lasts very long’”_

“That’s not fair.” Ezekiel frowns, sprinting to catch up with Dean. “I said they _usually_ don’t last very long. And I thought you said you were going to be getting over him, anyway.”

“I _know_ I did.” Dean clenches his jaw. “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t _hurt.”_

“Well then, find a way to make it _not_ hurt.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to do _that_?”

“Find someone to make out with.”

Dean grits his teeth as they round up the stairs, passing a few more drunk couples, and several more just-passed-out students. Music floats down the corridor that they turn onto.

“You know what? I’ve just had a moment of inspiration, and I think I know _exactly_ who you should be making out with.” Ezekiel grins widely, all of a sudden, turning to face Dean and stopping the human in his tracks.

“Who?” Dean asks, a soft frown pinching at his features.

“Gadreel,” Ezekiel beams, as though the name should mean something to Dean.

“Sorry, who?” Dean frowns.

“Gadreel.” Ezekiel says again. “It’s his party.”

“Who’s Gadreel?” Dean asks, still frowning.

“This guy in his senior year—fuck, Dean, if you like _Cassie,_ wait ‘til you meet _Gadreel_ —he’s—” Ezekiel cuts his sentence off and grins at a point just behind Dean. “—Right there.” Ezekiel finishes.

Dean turns and sees a serious looking angel with a soft smile approaching the two of them. He has short brown hair and the strongest jawline Dean thinks he’s _ever fucking seen,_ and piercing grey eyes and thin lips and _yeah,_ Dean admits to himself, _the guy is pretty fucking hot._

“You know him?” Dean asks quietly. His chest feels a little bit too tight.

“Know him?” Ezekiel asks absently, glancing at a pretty blonde haired angel taking leisurely swigs of a beer with her back to the wall of the wide corridor. “Yeah. We’re family friends.”

“And he’s nice?”

“Nice?” Ezekiel seems to be growing more distant. He glances back at Dean. “Very.” He nods. “Kind of aloof. But nice. He’s very much an object of desire in this place.” _Like Castiel,_ Dean thinks. “Here,” Ezekiel says, slinging his bag of his shoulder and pulling out a bottle of clear liquid. “Vodka. Drink up, that’s all yours.”

“Thanks—” Dean stammers, unsure of what else to say, but Ezekiel brushes him off.

“No problem, I’ve got a bottle of my own. Unless I’m hooking up with someone, or building up to that, you can ask me for some weed in a while, too. My dealer’s coming down here, so.”

“Thank you—” Dean stammers again. Gadreel is still approaching, greeting passing acquaintances with a kind, troubled smile.

“No problem, man.” Ezekiel says again. He unscrews the bottle for Dean and holds it out for him. Dean takes a nervous swig and winces through the burning taste of the clear liquid. “Hey, Gadreel!” Ezekiel calls over the angel, who _holy shit,_ is really freaking muscular. Dean can make it out, even from underneath the guy’s needless amounts of layers. Seriously, who the fuck wears a hoodie _and_ a leather jacket? Dean bites his lip quickly, recanting his judgement, because actually, it’s really quite fucking hot, and the guy—Gadreel—pulls it off pretty damn well. “This is Dean.” Ezekiel gestures to Dean, who prickles with red. “He’s new around these parts, and a little bit nervous. You think you could help loosen him up?”

Gadreel glances away from Ezekiel and over to Dean, looking him up and down. Dean bristles somewhat uncomfortably, heat creeping down his neck. Ezekiel’s wings spread a little as he—Dean assumes—appraises the human silently. He thinks he recognises the guy from somewhere; maybe he’s on the football team, or something.

“You play football?” He asks. He has a hard, direct voice, and speaks with a soft frown pinched at his features.

“I—yeah—” Dean nods. “—I’m on the team—”

“And that’s how you met Ezekiel, I assume?” Gadreel inquires, gesturing to the still-distracted looking angel to his side.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. Shit, he’s bad at this stuff.

“You’re on the team?”

“I am.” Dean nods again.

“I play too, sometimes, but only for fun.” Gadreel states. “I attend practice only on occasion.”

“And the coach is—okay with that?” Dean asks nervously.

“If he isn’t, he doesn’t say so.” Gadreel replies, the ghost of a smile twitching at his features. Dean mirrors the expression nervously. “Ezekiel, rather than eyeing up our dear blonde friend over there with such a vacant expression, perhaps you ought to _talk to her.”_ He turns suddenly to Ezekiel, rolling his eyes. Ezekiel’s gaze snaps back to Gadreel.

“Fine,” He mumbles. “But remember, I’m not as good at this as you are. So if I fuck up…”

He trails off. Dean wonders what exactly _will_ happen if Ezekiel fucks up. Probably nothing. Gadreel turns back to Dean as the other angel claps him on his shoulder in a style that seems to be saying something along the lines of _good luck;_ and leaves the two of them be.

“I’ve seen you on the field.” Gadreel states, stepping closer to Dean—so close that Dean can feel the heat radiating from the angel’s body. Dean presses his lips together as his chest tightens. “You’re good.”

“—Thank you—” Dean stammers out. Gadreel presses his fingers under Dean’s jaw and tilts his head up. _Wow_ , this guy is forward.

“But rather shy, apparently…” Gadreel says softly. Dean flushes. The angel’s lips twitch upwards. “ _Very_ shy.” He says again, as though correcting himself. He steps suddenly away from Dean, leaving Dean feeling oddly cold, and takes him by the elbow, steering him away from the crowds of people, further down the corridor. The crowd thins somewhat. Dean takes the opportunity to breathe deeply—his lungs are stuffed into his throat, begging for air out of sheer nervousness, and the corridor is particularly stuffy with the many clusters of students gathered along it. But the air is thinning out, cooling down, and it feels like water against Dean’s tongue. He wants to get drunk; he wants to be able to relax, but he won’t be able to as long as Gadreel, the _incredibly_ muscular angel, is steering him by the elbow down some designated route to Dean-doesn’t-quite-know-where. “Perhaps we ought to go somewhere quieter in order to get better acquainted.” Gadreel says, an almost-smirk playing at his features. “Does that sound desirable?” He asks, glancing down at Dean.

“—Um—” Dean croaks. Gadreel stops outside a door, doing nothing, saying nothing. Waiting. Dean presses himself for an answer. “—Very desirable.” He nods. His heart is hammering at his chest.

Gadreel’s lips play upwards.

“That certainly is the response I was hoping for.” He nods, fingers dancing delicately up Dean’s t-shirt. Dean glances down at the angel’s hands, defined as though they were chiselled out of marble, his heart rising into his throat. Before he can think for a moment longer, Gadreel has wound his strong fingers around the fabric of Dean’s shirt and tugged him through the doorway of the room, pulling him inside.

Somewhere along the way, his lips have sealed to Dean’s, and Dean makes a muffled sound of surprise against Gadreel’s lips as the angel’s tongue probes into Dean’s mouth. His stomach rolls; heat presses, heavy, at the walls of the base of his torso, and Gadreel slams closed the door and presses Dean up against it, dragging his teeth across Dean’s lips.

“You think I’m succeeding in loosening you up?” He asks, a soft smirk playing across his lips.

“Definitely,” Dean nods breathlessly, hardly able to look up at the angel. He hears a gentle, amused exhalation, and feels fingers press underneath his jaw, once again.

“Shy,” He observes once again. Dean blushes. “Meek.” Another observation. “I think I rather like that. I think that rather a _lot_ of people must like that.”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond. He presses his lips together and looks up at Gadreel. He probably doesn’t want Dean to answer back, anyway. That’s how these things usually work. They always want Dean quiet and compliant.

“Have you had much to drink?” Gadreel asks, eyes flicking down to the bottle still in Dean’s hand.

Oh, and that’s the other thing they always want. Dean intoxicated.

“I haven’t had the chance—” Dean shakes his head, unscrewing the bottle. “—Sorry—”

“No,” Gadreel says, gentle and firm, pressing his fingers to Dean’s wrist to still him. “That’s a good thing. Neither have I.”

“It’s a good thing?” Dean asks, uncertainly.

“A good thing.” Gadreel repeats. “You aren’t making a decision based on intoxication, and neither am I. You won’t regret this come tomorrow because you weren’t thinking rationally due to alcohol consumption.”

“Oh.”

Dean thinks absently that maybe there are still _more_ nice people out there in the world than he had given the universe credit for.

“You seem surprised that I don’t wish to take advantage of you.” Gadreel observes. His expression is straight and hard and curious, and Dean resists the urge to flicker his gaze nervously away.

“I just—” Dean stammers. “—I haven’t had much experience with people who think like that.”

“You can’t have had much experience with any amount of particularly nice people.”

“You could say that.” Dean looks down. He hears Gadreel exhale softly again. In the next moment, hot lips are being sealed to his neck and are sucking possessive marks up and down his skin. Dean bites down on his moan before it escapes his lips, his fingers finding their way into the angel’s hair.

“Put the bottle down.” Gadreel instructs against Dean’s skin.

Dean does as he is told.

“You like being marked?” He asks, his knee slipping between Dean’s legs and parting them slowly. Dean’s chest feels too tight again. “As I was just doing?”

“—Yes—” Dean nods. “But nothing further. Nothing more. No blood—” He cuts himself off. No bloodplay. He’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

“Understood.” Gadreel nods gently. “I wouldn’t, anyway.” He presses his body flush against Dean’s again. “You’re very pretty.” He mumbles softly, his hands slipping up Dean’s shirt. Dean presses his lips together and flushes.

It’s been said.

“Thank you.” He nods. Gadreel’s lips twitch upwards again and he pins one of his arms to the door, the other still dancing around Dean’s waist, and seals their lips together again.

And then Dean is dragged over to the bed, dragged down onto it, rolled over onto his back as the angel’s hips set into a filthy grind against his own, his wings spreading out wide and far and possessive above them; and Dean moans against Gadreel’s mouth because _fuck,_ this feels good, and he’s _missed_ being taken like this, and he feels the angel’s growl reverberate against his mouth; possessive and dark and perfect, and Gadreel’s iron grip is on Dean’s hips, guiding their rhythm, and Dean is already half hard, and he doesn’t know how long they’re doing this for—probably _hours,_ he feels so lost in arousal—and he doesn’t even know how long he’s been at the party for and he doesn’t even notice the door opening until—

“Oh.”

Gadreel breaks off from Dean’s mouth, leaving Dean panting and whining into the empty air above him, as the angel looks up and away from Dean, at the figure in the doorway.

“Castiel?” He asks, frowning slightly. Dean snaps back into reality, sitting up suddenly. The motion earns him a confused glance from Gadreel, but most of the angel’s focus is on _Castiel_ , stood, mouth agape in the doorway.

“Gadreel—” Castiel stammers. It seems like he can’t think of what to say. Dean has never seen the guy lost for words, before. He wonders what could have brought it on. Perhaps Castiel and Gadreel were once an item—they would certainly be the campus’s supercouple, if one had ever existed—or perhaps Castiel has feelings for Gadreel; unresolved feelings—and _shit,_ Castiel already hates Dean _enough_ as it is _without_ this reason to further his disdain for Dean’s being.

Dean has got in the way of Castiel and a love-interest of his. Fuck. Dean keeps fucking up. Fuck. He can’t _stop._ He wants to cry. He thinks absently that he _always_ wants to cry.

“—I didn’t realise that you were—” Castiel’s throat sounds drier and rougher than usual. “—I’m sorry—Ezekiel told me to come here and check up on Dean—”

Why would Ezekiel ask Castiel to do that? Had he forgotten who he had left Dean with? What his instruction had been to Dean and Gadreel?

“—But he’s clearly doing okay—” Castiel glances at Dean for about a microsecond, then away again. “—I apologise—” Castiel stammers, his face red, his expression filled with more emotion than Dean thinks he has ever seen flickered across the angel’s features; and Dean’s heart crumples, because he’s fucked up; he’s _really_ badly fucked up this time. “I’ll leave you two to…” Castiel trails off and nods awkwardly in some vague, nondescript gesture, before swallowing thickly and leaving. The door is shut stiffly behind him.

Gadreel glances back down to him. His arms are on either side of Dean’s body, pinning the human to the bed as he supports himself on top of him.

“You’re worrying about something.” Gadreel observes quietly. “What about?”

“Nothing—” Dean shakes his head. He is sure his face is scarlet. “—I guess I’m just embarrassed—” He half-lies. “—Being interrupted—”

Gadreel presses his lips together, as though slightly unconvinced, and nods for a moment.

“I understand.”

Dean isn’t really sure he _does,_ but he lets Gadreel bend down and press another kiss, this one gentle, to his lips, anyway.

And then the angel’s hands slip behind his back, underneath him, pushing Dean’s body upwards into Gadreel’s touches; which grow rougher and faster, the grind of his hips getting quicker and less deliberated; and Dean lets himself be lost to it, imagining piercing blue eyes where he is met by grey, and jet black wings where he can see only soft brown.

He’s whited out for a moment—maybe more than a moment, maybe minutes, maybe _hours_ —but he’s back with it, now. He’s lying on his front, his feet planted on the ground, his head buried in Gadreel’s bundled sheets. Pleasure is thrumming through him just as powerfully as the overwhelming sense of guilt; everything feels good and bad and terrible and delicious; his feet have gone numb and his mind is reeling inside his skull. Gadreel’s iron grip is on his hips, stuttering forward harshly as the angel comes with a rough groan inside of Dean, whose head feels as though it has floated away from his body. The blankets beneath him are damp with his own release. His chest; which had been feeling all too tight, feels as though it is loosening slowly. He groans into the bed at the last of Gadreel’s thrusts and feels one of the angel’s hands remove itself from his side and slide slowly through Dean’s hair. Dean only has time to tilt his head to the side and hum appreciatively before the angel begins removing himself from inside of Dean, pulling out of him slowly and discarding the used condom, tossing it into the bin. Dean takes a deep breath, feeling suddenly empty and slightly discarded, as the condom, whilst sliding down onto his knees beside the bed and looking up at the wall.

“Good?” Gadreel asks, rummaging for something before hopping onto the bed, lying back on it. When Dean glances up at him, he sees the angel wearing a pair of boxers and nothing else.

“Good.” Dean confirms breathlessly. Gadreel tosses him a towel and Dean only _just_ has the thought-processes to be able to catch it in time. “Here, clear yourself up. I think Castiel was looking for you. You’d best tell him you’re still safe.”

Shit. Castiel.

“Oh—” Dean stammers. “Right—”

“You like him.” Gadreel states, reaching over to a small set of drawers beside his bed and grabbing his phone from the top of them. He checks it for messages, then tosses it down to the foot of the bed.

Fuck, is it really that obvious? Even to an outsider?

“I don’t—” Dean stammers.

“I can tell, Dean.” Gadreel almost snorts. “There’s very little point in attempting to deny it.”

Well, fine.

“I guess…” Dean mumbles, embarrassed. He makes a point of not looking up at the angel, but rather cleaning the evidence of his release off of his stomach as though there is nothing more shameful in the world. His face feels hot, again. “But he doesn’t like me back, and there’s no hope of him ever doing so—”

“Which is exactly the point I was going to make. You’re a human.” Gadreel states, kneeling up on the bed and shifting toward Dean, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilting Dean’s head up to kiss him again. “And Castiel won’t ever be able to look past that. He’s convinced all of you are unforgivably racist. And whilst you may all be racist, even if it’s just a little—you’re not unforgivably so. I like you.” He says, pulling back. “And I understand it if you wanted this to be a one-time thing, but I would very much like to see you again. If not romantically, then at least like this.” Gadreel gestures to Dean, still naked, now. Dean shifts slightly uncomfortably at the frankness of Gadreel’s words. “And if you would desire to see me, romantically, again—perhaps we could get a coffee, some time?”

Dean looks at the floor. His face heats further.

“I don’t know…” He mumbles. And he doesn’t.

The last time he dated a guy—

Well, things didn’t end well.

But Gadreel _isn’t_ Alastair, he reminds himself. He’s nothing _like_ Alastair. He’s not harsh or cruel or belittling, not unkind or malicious or manipulative. He wouldn’t pressure Dean to do things he wouldn’t want to do; wouldn’t force Dean to spend all his time with him; wouldn’t hit Dean; wouldn’t send him to _hospital—_

“You don’t know?” Gadreel repeats. His hand has slid down to Dean’s shoulder. The touch isn’t unpleasant. It doesn’t make Dean want to shudder away; doesn’t make Dean flinch; doesn’t make the press of tears sting at Dean’s eyes. So it should be fine, shouldn’t it? Why is that that Dean feels so— _not_ fine?

“I don’t—” Dean’s voice grates against his throat. His mind is spinning. He hasn’t dated a guy since Alastair. He hasn’t _been_ with a guy since Alastair. Well, until now.

But Gadreel _isn’t_ Alastair.

So what’s the problem?

Oh, right.

Gadreel isn’t Cas.

 

 

 

Castiel stares at the wall, his jaw clenched. He sits on his bed, fists balled at either side of him, nails digging so harshly into his skin that they are leaving little crescent-shaped indentations onto his palms.

He’s never been confronted with a situation such as this, before. Never been confronted so headstrong by his feelings for Dean.

_Feelings?!_

Castiel sighs to himself, running his hands harshly through his hair. He’s too drunk for this. He left the party early, head spinning with alcohol and jealousy, vision blurred and heart hammering and splintering inside of his chest.

And what right does Castiel have to be jealous? He and Meg are— _something…_ And he wouldn’t have any right to be jealous, even without Meg in the picture. He and Dean aren’t an item. They never have been. He’s never expressed any interest in Dean. At all. He’s been a _prick_ to Dean. Dean isn’t _his_ , much as the angel wishes he was, and he never will be. In fact, Dean may well be _Gadreel’s_ now.

The thought sends his head reeling with envy. The image of Dean underneath Gadreel, half hard with arousal, beaming giddily, is still engrained onto the back of Castiel’s skull. He’ll never be rid of it. And he’ll never be rid of the searing sense of bitterness that the image sends coursing through him. He’s fucked up. He’s definitely fucked up. He needs to get over this. It’s just a stupid crush. Just a stupid, _stupid_ crush. It’s not even a crush. He just likes Dean’s prettiness. That’s all it is. That’s all there is to it. That’s all there is to it for Gadreel, too. Dean isn’t—isn’t anything interesting. Just a blushing human who likes Hemingway and video games and classic rock and leather jackets and plays football and fixes cars and can recite his favourite quotes by heart and wears some stupid necklace – amulet – whatever – that his brother gave him and wears his mother’s ring all the time because he loves her and misses her and Dean is _not at all_ interesting and _not at all_ wonderful or brilliant or enchanting or beautiful in every possible sense of the word. Castiel groans and tilts his head back until it thumps against the wall.

What the fuck has he been thinking? All this time. Getting so attached to one stupid, _adorable_ human. No. Not adorable.

Castiel casts his mind back to the image of Dean and Gadreel. Is it bad that he wishes he could have been Gadreel, lying on top of Dean, pulling happy smiles and sounds from Dean’s lips? Is it bad that the thought sends a searing heat mixed with happiness swirling through the pit of his gut? He swallows thickly and closes his eyes. Just as he does so, Ezekiel bursts through the door.

“Dean got _laid_ toniiiight!” He shouts in an annoying, sing-song voice. “Dean got laid tonight, and it’s all thanks to his amazing friend – _Ezekiel_!”

Castiel glances up to see Ezekiel staggering over to his bed before collapsing down onto it with enough force to shake the foundations of the room. Dean has followed him in, supporting the angel only up until the point that Ezekiel crashes onto his own bed, where he steps back as though his is afraid Ezekiel is going to topple over onto him.

“Castiel!” Ezekiel grins, rolling over rather clumsily and facing his roommate. “Dean got _laid_ tonight!”

“I heard.” Castiel says through gritted teeth. He looks away and clenches his jaw.

“It’s all thanks to _me!_ I introduced him to Gadreel!”

“Good for you.”

“You think you’re going to call Gadreel, after this?” Ezekiel asks, grinning up at Dean. “Maybe meet up with him again? Go on a date?”

Dean glances over nervously to Castiel before answering, as if considering his response. As if uncertain. Does he know? Does he know Castiel likes him? No, he couldn’t. Nobody knows. Nobody ever _will._

“I don’t know…” He mumbles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You like him?” Ezekiel asks, sitting up a little more on his bed, his movements clumsy with intoxication.

“I guess…” Dean’s face is practically ablaze and he glances nervously back at Castiel as he speaks, who is attempting—and probably failing miserably—to maintain his cool, indifferent exterior.

“You guess?!”

“I don’t know—” Dean stammers.

“You _fucked_ the guy, Dean! At least admit that he’s hot!”

“He’s definitely hot…” Dean says, uncertainly.

“So what’s the problem?”

“’Zeke, can we not talk about this now? Please?” Dean flushes.

“Come on, Dean, at least tell me how it was. We’re all _dying_ to know. You hear me, Dean, dyingggg. _Dyingggg”_ Ezekiel sings. Castiel’s blood is beginning to boil—though with what, he isn’t sure. “Dyingggg!” He exclaims. “Give us the details! Details, details, details!” He chants in the same slurred, infuriating, sing-song voice. “Details! Details, Dean! I’m _dyinggg—”_

 _“Ezekiel!”_ Castiel nearly bellows at his roommate, anger exploding suddenly within him and bursting out of him in flames as a suddenly lit match. Ezekiel stops whining immediately and turns to gape at Castiel. Dean does the same. Castiel’s face heats. He looks down.

“Stop bothering him.” He sighs. He glances up at Dean, who pulls a pained little smile, perhaps a sort of thank-you, and Castiel desperately wants to look away again. “Dean, thank you for bringing Ezekiel back. I’m—” He stammers, somewhat. “—I’m sorry for… interrupting you, earlier. I hope your night was enjoyable, in any case.” Pause. Castiel should leave it there. He doesn’t. “Perhaps you ought to return to your own room and get some sleep. You must be _exhausted_ after tonight’s exertions.”

His comment comes out meaner than intended. It sounds dry and sarcastic and judgemental. He spits it out with a great deal of venom, and suddenly finds himself _hating_ himself more than he ever thought possible, with how the human responds—Dean looks away, his face blistered red, and Castiel thinks he sees tears press at Dean’s eyes. He _knows_ he sees the press of tears at the human’s eyes.

“Right…” Dean mumbles, looking at the wall. “Of course. I’ll get out of your hair. I’m sorry…”

Why is Dean apologising? And why is Castiel such an ass? He berates himself inwardly, something ugly and worried swirling murkily in his gut. Dean makes his way to the door and casts back a fleeting, tearful glance at nothing in particular before opening it and exiting. Ezekiel appears to have passed out on his bed. Castiel stares at the wall for a good ten seconds before swinging himself off his bed, flinging open the door and sprinting out onto the corridor.

“Dean—” He calls out. Dean has nearly made it over to the door, and he glances back at Castiel, lips pressed together in a thin, upset line. “—I—” He manages to catch up to Dean, who has stopped to turn and look at Castiel. “My comment came out meaner than I expected. Or intended. And I have a feeling that it hurt yourfeelings, and for that I am truly sorry. That was never my intention—I just—”

“You like Gadreel?” Dean asks, his voice quiet and rough. “And you’re… pissed off at me for getting with him?” Castiel sputters and stops a moment, squinting at the human. It’s as good a lie as any, and one that he could easily latch onto in order to hide his feelings for Dean, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t _want_ to do this.

“No.” Castiel shakes his head. “Not at all. That’s not why I was rude. I’m just… tired. And Ezekiel while drunk can be a little draining to listen to, as you’ve probably noticed.”

Dean laughs nervously.

“But I’m sorry.” Castiel sighs. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“That’s okay.” Dean shrugs, looking down. Castiel wonders if the human still likes Castiel. _Likes_ likes him. He wouldn’t blame Dean for not having a crush on him, any more—particularly after Dean saw how desirable he truly was perceived as by others, for his pretty green eyes and delicate features and warm smile—and how much of a dick Castiel can be in comparison. “I’m not even sure if me and Gadreel are… anything. If we ever will be.”

“Did he ask you out, afterwards?”

“Sort of…” Dean says uncertainly. “But I don’t know if I _would_ …”

“Why not?”

“It’s sort of a long—I mean, I haven’t dated any guys since—I just—” Dean looks down. “You know what? This is probably a conversation I should have with Ezekiel. He’d understand. He’s too drunk to, right now, but he’d understand. I’m sorry for bothering you with it. You don’t want to hear it…”

“No it’s—” Castiel’s voice grates against his throat. Of course Dean would rather talk to Ezekiel. Of course Dean thinks that Castiel is an ass. Of course Dean considers Ezekiel a friend to confide in, when he considers Castiel… nothing. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing worth pursuing. Not like Gadreel. “—Fine.” Castiel finishes. He presses his lips together. “I should get back.” He says, after a pause. He glances to the pitch black sky outside of the building. “Make sure Ezekiel hasn’t choked on his own vomit.” He laughs. It sounds fake in his ears. Dean laughs nervously, too. “And you really _should_ get some sleep. Are you—are you okay for getting back, alright?”

“I’m fine—” Dean shakes his head. “—I’ve got Gadreel—” He cuts himself off and shifts awkwardly for a moment. “Gadreel said that he would walk me home, if I wanted. He’s waiting outside.”

“Oh.” Castiel nods. His mouth has gone oddly dry. “Good. Good for you.” He presses his lips together. “Good for you.” He repeats. “Gadreel. You two—you suit each other. You deserve something—” He doesn’t know what to say. _“—Someone—”_ Where’s he going with this? “—Someone who makes you happy. You deserve that.”

Dean blushes.

“Goodnight.” Castiel finishes, tersely. Dean’s mouth is clamped shut and all he does is pull a pained, forced smile in response and nod at Castiel before turning back down the corridor. Castiel walks numbly back into his room and slumps down onto his bed again.

“Where did you go?” Ezekiel slurs from where he lies, face-down into his pillow.

“It doesn’t matter.” Castiel sighs.  His face feels heavy. “Out.” He explains. “Just for a bit. To get some air. You get some sleep.”

“I got Dean laid.” Ezekiel laughs into his pillow.

“I heard.” Castiel replies, his voice sounding oddly void of emotion. “Good for you.”

“Good for _him_ , more like.” Ezekiel corrects, the grin evident in his voice.

“Good for him.” Castiel repeats, dully. He lies back on his bed and turns to face the wall. His face still feels heavy. So does his heart.

 

…

 

Dean comes round the next day. He doesn’t even look at Castiel on the way in.

It’s odd, but it bears a stark contrast to what Castiel is used to from the human; what Castiel _expects_ every time he sees Dean awkwardly opening the door or following Ezekiel into the room, his expression meek.

Castiel is so used to Dean staring at him, all wide-eyed and full of wonder. It hurts to have this removed so suddenly, and Castiel knows that he’s a selfish prick for feeling that way. For resenting the loss of Dean’s constant worship and awe.

But Dean not acting so enchanted around Castiel is just more proof of the fact that maybe, definitely, the human is over him. Castiel rests his book on his chest, still open, and stares up at the ceiling. His eyes burn.

“Are you gonna go out with Gadreel, then?” Ezekiel asks, rolling onto his stomach to talk to Dean, who sits on the floor between both Castiel and Ezekiel.

“I told you last night,” Dean mumbles, embarrassed. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, _c’mon_ , Dean—”

“’Zeke, please, not now.” Dean puts his face in his hands and groans softly.

“What? Why not now? What’s wrong?”

“I’ll tell you later—”

_“Oh my God, you still—”_

“It’s not that, okay ‘Zeke? It’s something else!”

Ezekiel sighs pointedly. Castiel glances up. He has never heard Dean be this assertive.

“You know what,” Dean exhales, pushing himself off of his seat with a loud sigh. “I don’t need to go through this. I’m gonna excuse it as you being hung over, ‘Zeke, but—” He cuts himself off, running a tired hand through his hair. “I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I haven’t—” He cuts himself off again. “—Just—Forget it.”

And with that, Dean leaves.

Ezekiel’s face is pinched into a confused frown. He stares at the door which Dean has just closed for several long moments. Castiel stares at Ezekiel.

“What brought that on?” He asks, at last. He glances over to Castiel, still frowning, perplexed.

“…Maybe you should just stop asking him about it.” Castiel suggests.

“About Gadreel?” Ezekiel frowns. “But I thought he _liked_ Gadreel.”

“He may well do.” Castiel shrugs. “He just might not want to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I got that much,” Ezekiel rolls his eyes, sitting up on his bed and pressing his back against the wall. “But _why—”_ He cuts himself off. _“—Oh.”_

“Why what?” Castiel frowns. “’Oh’, what?”

“Ugh—it doesn’t matter.” Ezekiel sighs rubbing his face. “Don’t worry about it. I just—won’t bring it up again.”

“Bring what up?”

This time, it is Castiel who is squinting in confusion.

“Don’t worry about it.” Ezekiel shakes his head quickly. “I just—I don’t think Dean is gonna be dating Gadreel, any time soon. I don’t think he’s gonna be dating _any_ guys, any time soon.”

“Why not?”

“Just—because.” Ezekiel sighs. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t bother him about it.”

“You’re not making any sense—”

“And that doesn’t _matter.”_ Ezekiel shakes his head again. “I’m gonna go find Dean.”

Ezekiel stands and leaves. Castiel stares at the door, perplexed.

Everyone is speaking in riddles.

 

…

 

“You know, I would very much like to see you again, Dean.” Gadreel says softly, his fingertips brushing up the back of Dean’s neck. Dean feels the touch _everywhere_.

“Oh, you will, I guess…” He says awkwardly. “…On the field, in the—”

“I didn’t mean within the context of football practice.” Gadreel replies. Dean blushes. He knows what the angel meant. He just—well, he doesn’t know how to respond. He knows what Gadreel wants. Gadreel is managing to make that pretty clear, all things said and done. It’s just that _Dean_ doesn’t know what _he_ wants. “I meant like this.” Gadreel says, squeezing the back of Dean’s neck softly. “Like this,” He says, as if to emphasise his point, as he kisses Dean gently, hot tongue probing into Dean’s mouth. “Like this,” He murmurs, kissing down Dean’s neck—Dean moans despite himself and his hands find their way into Gadreel’s short hair. “Does that sound desirable?” Gadreel asks, after pulling back after what feels like an eternity of him mouthing at Dean’s skin, and what equally feels like nowhere near enough time at all.

“That sounds—” Dean’s words grate against his throat. “—It sounds—” Why can’t he speak? What’s wrong with him? “—That _sounds_ pretty amazing, Gadreel—” He admits. Gadreel raises his eyebrows at Dean’s words.

“But?”

“But I don’t know…” Dean murmurs, looking down.

“Because of Castiel?”

“Because of a lot of things.” Dean sighs, closing his eyes. He feels Gadreel’s forehead bump softly against his own. His chest feels tight. It’s hard to breathe. “Castiel being one of them—but a lot of things—a _lot—”_

“You needn’t explain.” Gadreel reminds. His words are gentle. Dean desperately wants to be able to say yes to everything that Gadreel wants from him, to cling on tightly to the angel and the comfort he keeps promising, but he _can’t_ be like that with anyone—any _guys—_ again. Not after—

“You can answer in as much time as you like.” Gadreel’s voice cuts through Dean’s thoughts like Dean’s mind is made of jello and Gadreel’s words are razor blades. “Take as long as you like. Days, weeks, whatever. And I’ll understand whatever your answer is.”

“Thank you.”  Dean’s voice sounds rough and raw. Gadreel presses one last kiss to his forehead before walking back out into the night air. Dean ambles slowly into the building. Sifting through his thoughts proves more difficult than he had first imagined. He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know if he should say yes to Gadreel. He doesn’t know if he _can._

 

…

 

 

 

Dean feels sore when he wakes up. He’s used to feeling like this, only worse, and he guesses that it’s because of not enough prep or not enough aftercare or not enough of both. It’s not as though he gave Gadreel a chance to take care of him after they were done, anyway. He just got all weird and distant. Dean groans and rubs his face with the flat of his hands. Why is he insisting on being so cautious with Gadreel?—Especially when he knows that it won’t get like it was with Alastair—and when he knows that him and Cas – well, that it’s never going to happen.

But then, that’s just it. Dean started out with Alastair, thinking the guy was slick and soft and charming as fuck; only to discover that he had been _wrong,_ very fucking wrong. It always starts off good. Why would they start off bad, anyway? They trap you by making things start off good. Things had started off _so_ good with Alastair. Dean had been young and stupid and eager to please and desperate to find _someone_ because he constantly felt _so alone_ – he’d been an easy target. He should have seen it coming. It was his fucking fault. Only Dean was to blame.

He rolls off of his bed, his feet hitting the floor, and presses his face into his palms again. _Shit._ He feels alone again. And feeling alone and being desperate for company had been exactly how Alastair had managed to draw Dean in so quick. Honestly, if you pay enough attention to one lonely fuck for long enough – and Dean _really_ hadn’t needed very long – they’ll do anything for you. Put up with anything. And Dean _had_ done anything. And he’d put up with anything and everything, too. Just out of the fear of being alone? Was that all there was to it? It had definitely started out that way, sure. But after a while it became just as much about fear of things getting worse— _so_ much worse—the fear of A _lastair,_ as it was about the fear of being left alone with his own mind, again.

Sometimes, Dean’s mind feels too big for him. It stretches out too wide and too numb like a great icy ocean and it holds so many dark corners and crevices that Dean is afraid he will get lost in or that will swallow him whole; and he just doesn’t want to be alone with his own thoughts, ‘cause sometimes they get bad. Sometimes they get really, _really_ bad.

It’s been like this ever since his mom and dad died. Something got lost inside of Dean, something stopped or snapped or stretched too far, and now he’s left all broken and only further broken by all the other shit he’s done and all the other shit that’s happened to him and Dean is _really_ starting to question why it is that when he actually finds someone who makes him _happy,_ he has to go along and fuck it all up just so he can never be with them again; and is left all alone once more. And the love that Dean _can_ accept isn’t love at all; it’s weird and dark and possessive and masked by leering, unkind faces that make Dean’s skin crawl and his body rock into convulsions.

And then, the love Dean craves is the love he’ll never be able to have. Like the love of his mother, back again. Or the love from one particular dark haired, azure eyed angel. He really is utterly and grandly fucked. Because _that_ love is never coming his way; and he wouldn’t deserve it even if it did.

He gets dressed with disembodied limbs and hands. He feels disconnected from himself. He thinks absently that he must be getting bad, again. His mind is going bad again. It starts off feeling sad and lonely and dirty, and then he just feels numb. That’s how it always goes.

He still has ‘Zeke’s vodka from last night. He might just drink away his problems when the day is through—but that’s the other thing. The idea of getting through the day is almost more than he can bear.


	5. Sun Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how late this is!

“Have you ever stopped and wondered what people reallythink about you, but never say?”

As usual when broaching a subject that delves a little deeper than hot girls or poking fun at Cas, Ezekiel hangs off his bed, upside down. He grins at Dean and waggles his eyebrows as would be done to a child, and Dean cannot help but feel slightly patronised, if amused.

“All the time.” He replies honestly, huffing out a somewhat hollow laugh.

“Me too,” Comes a rough, warm voice from behind Dean, and he cannot help but jump at the sound—because increasingly, Castiel has _not_ been speaking to Dean—which is really fucking saying something, considering the limited contact the two had anyway. “Always.”

“Seriously?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows at Castiel. “ _Seriously?”_

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Well, Cassie, ‘cause you’re _you._ You don’t give two shits about _anything.”_

“That’s an odd observation to make.” Castiel frowns, seemingly perplexed. “I clearly do.”

“Wow,” Ezekiel rolls over and grabs his phone. “You learn something new every day.”

His voice sounds distant and somewhat disaffected.

“What about you?” Dean asks. “Do you ever think about it?”

“Not really.” Ezekiel shrugs carelessly. Dean hears Castiel snort softly behind him.

“Then why did you ask?”

“Touché.” Ezekiel smirks softly at his roommate. “But I was only thinking about it. Like, I think I care less and less about it every day.”

“That’s probably a very good thing.” Castiel states absently. He swings his feet over the side of the bed; the movement elegant and soft and every bit as feline as Dean thinks it’s possible to get, then spots Dean staring at him—and all of a sudden, the frown is pinching at his features again and his movements turn awkward and staccato, once more. He peers underneath his bed and pulls out a book. Dean studies the title.

“Sylvia Plath,” He states, just as dumb as ever whenever it is he attempts to communicate with Castiel. “She, uh—she wrote that book—The Bell Jar—didn’t she?”

“She did,” Castiel confirms with what sounds like moderate surprise. “She also wrote poetry.” He gestures to the book in his hand. “You’ve read The Bell Jar?”

“We, uh—we studied it in my English class in high school.” Dean says. “It was pretty heavy stuff for teenagers, I guess, ‘cause I think I was the only one who liked it.”

“And why do you think you were the only one who liked it?” Castiel asks. His voice is soft and thoughtful and inquisitive. Dean wants to look down, to draw his gaze away from the angel, but he can’t. He stares into those brilliant azure eyes, and they stare right back at him; shredding the skin off Dean’s bones, raking over every cell in his body and dragging over Dean’s flesh like sharp nails. Sometimes, Dean is convinced that if Castiel were to stare at him hard enough, he would be able to read Dean’s thoughts. Other times, Dean is pretty sure Castiel can read his thoughts, anyway.

“I don’t—” Dean shakes his head, finally looking down, his face heating to unimaginable temperatures. “I don’t know.” He says. His voice feels suddenly raw. “She just—sometimes I—I felt like she—”

“Like she understood?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean. Dean nods softly.

“It’s kind of difficult to articulate, but yeah. That’s how I felt.” Dean nods. “Sometimes I feel empty like—” He’s saying too much; he’ said too much already, _shit shit shit_ Dean needs to stop speaking because Castiel and Ezekiel are gonna end up thinking that Dean’s a _freak—_ if they didn’t already—

“Like you’re in the bell jar, too?” Castiel finishes for Dean. Dean wants the ground to swallow him up. He glances up at Castiel, whose expression seems sombre. Riddled with understanding. Sad. Why sad? Why is Castiel sad for Dean? “I’m sorry to hear that.” He says gently. Another pause. “You ought to express how you feel, more often. People won’t know, otherwise.”

“That’s probably for the best.” Dean lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “People don’t want to hear my problems.”

This was apparently not at all the best of comments to make in front of Castiel. The angel scowls, his expression turns hard and stubborn and his jaw clenches as a frown pinches at his features.

 _“I_ would listen.” He says, somewhat forcefully, as though he is personally offended by what Dean has just said. “So would Ezekiel.” He adds quickly, an afterthought. “And people _do_ care. And if you never express it, it’ll kill you.”

“Sorry…” Dean mumbles, looking down again.

“And you needn’t apologise.” Castiel sighs, sitting back on his bed. “And I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s frame trembles.

“Anyway, The Bell Jar. You enjoyed it.” Castiel states. “Perhaps you ought to read some of her poetry. I’m sure you’d like that, too.”

“I’m sure I would.” Dean nods quickly. Castiel presses his lips together.

“I could lend you one of my books of her, if you like.” The angel offers. Dean’s skin turns a frantic shade of pink, although he doesn’t seem as embarrassed as he seems surprised.

“You’d do that?” He asks, a delicate frown indicative of disbelief pinching at his features.

“Well, yes.” Castiel almost laughs. “If you like The Bell Jar, I’m sure you’d enjoy her other stuff.”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Yeah—yeah, I—” He can’t seem to find his words. “Yes—thank you, Castiel—” He stammers out his thanks and Castiel waves it off, trying to supress his enamoured smile.

Really, Castiel thinks absently, it ought to be illegal, how cute this human is being.

“The Bell Jar’s really good—but—”

“But?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean.

“I remember reading it, and feeling uncomfortable at a lot of the stuff said. Like, a lot of it could get kind of racist.”

Castiel can’t stop himself from smiling. Whether it’s exasperated or amused or utterly in love he cannot tell; perhaps it is a combination of all of the above; but he smiles. He cannot help himself.

“What—what is it?” Dean asks, his face turning suddenly red.

“Nothing,” Castiel positively beams. “I just—I suppose it’s at least to be slightly expected, considering the time that she’s writing in.”

“Right.” Dean nods frantically, flushing further still.

“But still—it’s actually really good to pick up on it—” Castiel says, something upset twisting in his gut looking at Dean’s broken expression. The human nods quickly, the distress on his face settling down, somewhat. “And Dean—if you’re really interested in all of this stuff—” Castiel continues, examining Dean slowly. “—There’s a protest coming up. It’s in a few weeks.” He pauses, unsure of how to finish. Suddenly, Castiel feels very nervous. What if Dean says no? He has a feeling, from the human’s actions, that Dean and Gadreel are not an item, but that doesn’t guarantee that the human will want to spend any time with Castiel. Dean is friends with Ezekiel, after all. Not Castiel. It’s not as though Castiel has given Dean a chance, anyway. He worries at his lip a moment. “Would you like to come with me?” He asks, finally.

Dean’s head snaps back up to look at Castiel. His face has dropped all expression, his mouth is left gaping open and his eyes are wide—it’s rather like someone is stretching out his features and the effect is really rather endearing, as with most of Dean’s expressions. The human’s face is bright pink. It looks as though he’s forgotten how to breathe. Castiel thinks that he’s done the same.

“—Really?” Dean stammers out at last. Castiel feels warmth flood his insides and he lets out a soft chuckle and nods his head.

“Really.”

“Really, really?” Dean sputters.

Castiel cannot contain his laugh.

“Really, really.” He confirms. “Would you like to come along?”

“—Yeah—” Dean nods frantically. “Definitely. Yes please.”

The warmth is still gushing through Castiel.

“Do you really, _really_ want to go?” He asks, his tone slightly teasing. Dean flushes immediately but lets out a happy, albeit embarrassed laugh.

“Really, really.” Dean nods, beaming.

 

…

 

It’s a date.

No, _fuck_ , it’s not.

It’s not a date.

But what’s wrong with hoping?

Well, everything, Dean reminds himself. Hoping leads to a whole bucketload of shit.

It leads to wishing which leads to praying and eventually, to believing—and no good has ever come out of Dean believing that shit will get better, because it never does.

Believing leads to having all hopes and wishes and prayers getting crushed underfoot like some damn second grader would do to a bug. Believing has only ever lead to Dean getting hurt. And because believing in lies leads to getting hurt; and all that is caused by the stupid, useless factor of _hope;_ Dean avoids hoping for shit at all costs.

Because things rarely get better.

And there’s no use praying that they will.

 _It’s not a fucking date,_ he berates himself.

Castiel hates Dean and he’s taking him to a protest in the hope that he’ll shut the hell up when in the angel’s presence, and Dean doesn’t blame the guy for wanting Dean to shut up, because in his own humble opinion, Dean is insufferable.

At least he’s self-aware, too.

But could it be a date?

Dean kicks himself internally and knocks at the door of Castiel and Ezekiel’s room. Castiel opens it.

“You ready?” Dean finds himself asking, an awkward, obviously forced smile stretching across his features.

“I think so,” Castiel nods, glancing absently around the room. He picks up a backpack from his bed and swings it over his shoulder.

“What’s in there?” Dean asks, gesturing to the bag.

“Water, mainly.” Castiel laughs. “And a lot of it.”

“Oh.” Dean frowns softly. “Why?”

“Trust me, you’ll thank me when we get there.” Castiel says, starting along the corridor.

“Because of the big crowds?” Dean asks. The conversation—or at least his side of it—sounds painfully forced in his own ears.

“Because of the big crowds.” Castiel nods. “You get really dehydrated. Even if it isn’t a warm time of year.”

“Like at concerts.” Dean says, because he can’t think of what else to say. Castiel looks up and raises his eyebrows questioningly at him. “Well,” Dean stammers, “they get pretty packed, and everyone’s jumping around and shouting and having a good time, so it can get pretty hot.”

“Right.” Castiel nods, a frown pinching at his features. “I don’t really go to many concerts or anything, and the ones I do go to, the music’s probably a bit different to your kind—so I can’t say that that’s a shared experience.”

“Oh, okay.” Dean nods. “What kind of music do you like, then?”

“Not the kind you’d like, I don’t think.” Castiel laughs honestly.

“And what kind of stuff do you _think_ I like?” Dean asks, finding himself smiling widely. _This_ is a conversation he’s sure he’ll be able to get through without making a complete fool of himself, in front of Castiel. Music is probably Dean’s biggest passion in life.

They’re heading to the edge of campus, ready to get a bus---several, in fact—into the city.

“I’ve got you pegged as this serious hard rock fan.” Castiel grins. It’s weird for Dean to see the guy with such a big smile on his face. Not _bad_ weird—Dean can’t think of _anything_ else that could make him this kind of happy—but it’s just that it’s such a rare freaking occasion for Dean to see Cas even _smile,_ particularly in his direction. “Hard rock, heavy metal—you probably preach about the death of ‘real music’ every chance you get, you complain about ‘emo’, or whatever the genre is; about its fangirls and how it’s _‘super lame and not real rock’_ —chances are, you _worship_ Led Zeppelin—”

“Yeah, alright, Castiel, thank you.” Dean rolls his eyes. “You can stop now.”

“So was I right?” Castiel asks, glancing teasingly at Dean. Dean flushes and looks away.

 _“Maybe.”_ He mumbles. Castiel barks out a laugh. “But you still haven’t answered _my_ question. What kind of music do _you_ like?”

“Guess.” Castiel grins widely.

“I don’t know—” Deans sighs, but Castiel just chuckles and interrupts Dean.

 _“Guess.”_ He says again.

“Fine.” Dean grumbles. “’Zeke keeps talking about how much of a huge fucking hippy you are: I’m gonna guess you like all that hippy crap, then.”

“What hippy crap?”

“I don’t know, indie and all that shit, The Beatles—”

“Are very overrated.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “John Lennon was a huge fucking racist. And abusive to his wife—actually, _both_ his wives.”

“Oh.” Is all that Dean can say for a moment. Then he recovers himself. “Well, fine—but I’m right about the indie stuff?”

“Indie is a very subjective term.” Castiel shrugs. “I like a lot of older music—a lot of the stuff my parents used to listen to. And then there’s a lot of folk punk out there that’s really—”

 _“Folk punk?”_ Dean repeats, like the word leaves a nasty taste in his mouth. “What the hell is that?”

“Oh, there it is.” Castiel rolls his eyes again.

“There what is?”

“The pretentious incredulity of a ‘real music’ fan.”

“Hey, I never said _anything_ pretentious—”

“But you were going to.”

“—I asked what folk punk was!”

“A music genre.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

“You probably hate punk, as a heavy metal fan.” Castiel chuckles. “Don’t you?”

“It’s alright.” Dean looks down, his face red.

“You’re just saying that because you’re trying to prove me wrong.” Castiel chuckles louder, now. “Because you’re stubborn—I could _so tell_ when we first met that you were going to be a stubborn one.”

“Yeah, alright, Castiel.” Dean sighs again. “So I’m stubborn. And I don’t like punk. What’s the big deal?”

“Have you ever listened to punk?”

“Not properly, I guess—”

“Well, you should give it a chance.” Castiel smiles. “You might just like it.”

“Well maybe I don’t _want_ to like it.”

“That’s just being prejudiced.”

“It’s fair enough.” Dean frowns. “Punks are assholes, you’ve gotta admit.”

“Everyone can be an asshole, Dean.” Castiel reminds.

“And a lot of them are racist.”

“No, _some_ are racist. Anyone can be racist. And a lot of them are communists, and pro-social justice, and feminists, and anarchists, and really cool people.”

“And you’d group yourself with them?”

“Well, I’m not sure that I’m a punk.” Castiel laughs. “I don’t think I _could_ be grouped with them.”

“No, sorry, you’re a _folk_ punk.” Dean grins. “Big difference.”

“Shut up,” Castiel rolls his eyes.

 

…

 

There is a crowd in front of Castiel. All around him. He breathes deeply. The scent of discontent is in the air. He has grown to love this smell—it has grown, to Castiel, to become a sign that things are close to change. He has been to enough demonstrations to know, now. He has signed enough petitions to know. Has called out enough racists on their bullshit. Things are changing.

A few years ago, Castiel never would have dreamed that he would be attending one of these events with a human. He never would have imagined that he’d feel so happy, when in the company of one of them. And yet, with Dean, he is.

Dean isn’t like other humans.

This, Castiel has realised, is the only explanation he can offer that can allow him to live with his growing affections, without loathing himself entirely.

Dean looks an odd combination between elated and terrified, right now—and Castiel decides that he knows the feeling, and has to remind himself to look away from the human; to remind himself of their differences, of Dean’s privileges, of the fact that for Castiel to feel anything for a human would be to disgrace himself.

Looking at the human sends something warm swelling through Castiel’s heart.

He tries to tell himself that he only invited the human because has Dean shown a particular interest in angels’ rights—but that isn’t true. Or, not entirely. He wanted to be with Dean. That’s the honest truth. But Castiel can’t come to terms with this truth, because it hurts his heart and prompts him of the fact that Castiel may or may not be falling, hard; for a dorky, blushing, freckled human, who wears his father’s old jackets and talks about cars, and, on occasion—in an attempt to impress the angel he has a childish crush on—throws long words that Castiel can tell he doesn’t _really_ understand, into conversation.

But God help him, Castiel is falling hard.

And Castiel knows of Dean’s affections for him. Dean doesn’t exactly make it subtle, anyway. He’s endearingly bashful.

No. Castiel reprimands himself. Dean is enamoured and easily embarrassed and possesses some horribly pretty features—of both the physical nature, and in his peculiar idiosyncrasies—but Dean is nothing more than a human teen with likings towards an angel who, unfortunately for him, doesn’t return those emotions. He doesn’t. _He doesn’t._

He doesn’t just have a crush on Dean. Fuck, it’s so much worse than that.

And Dean has no idea. Nobody does. Which is why it’s so important for Castiel to keep this façade up. Castiel feels nothing but distrust toward humans. He went to the first integrated college in America for the sole fact that it was the first integrated college in America—it was the idea of the thing; what it represented to Castiel—nothing else.

Not because he want to befriend a bunch of humans. Or even just one.

And it certainly wasn’t because he wanted to grow feelings for a human, to spend more glorious, calm time with him, to fall—

Castiel glances at Dean. Dean is staring around him with an awestruck expression. It’s not at all charming. It’s really not. Castiel kicks himself.

“You’ve never been to a protest, before?” Castiel asks. Dean looks back to him, seemingly elated that he is able to speak to Castiel—it’s not cute; it’s really not—but a shy yet simultaneously warm grin is fixed across Dean’s features, and it’s making it impossible for Castiel to convince himself that he feels nothing towards the human.

“Yeah—I mean, no.” Dean shakes his head. “This is my first one.”

“How are you liking it?” Castiel asks, raising his voice to be heard over the chants of the crowd.

“What?” Dean frowns, leaning forward. Castiel repeats his question, even louder. Dean’s grin broadens, even more.

“I’m loving it.” He laughs. “Thank you so much for inviting me here. It means a lot.”

Castiel knows that it means a lot to Dean. He’s scared that it means even more to him.

He tells Dean that it wasn’t a problem, anyway. Dean’s eyes crinkle at their corners. Castiel wants to cup Dean’s jaw in his hands, to run the tips of his thumbs across Dean’s cheeks, to press soft kisses onto the bridge of Dean’s nose and on both of his eyelids. He resists the urge. It feels rather a lot like hammering a nail through his core and into the ground beneath him.

But he resists.

 

…

 

“Thanks for taking me, today.” Dean stammers as the pair walk back along the corridor to Castiel and Ezekiel’s dorm. “I—uh—I had a really great time—and it was cool to learn so much stuff—” He’s saying all the wrong shit, he can tell—he’s making it sound like it was a date, and it _wasn’t_ a date, he _said_ to himself it wouldn’t be; and he’s making it sound like it was all about him getting educated, and it _wasn’t—_ it was a _protest—_

“That’s alright.” Castiel smiles softly. “I’m glad you learnt things.”

“It was mainly you—” Dean laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “—You teaching me, I mean. You’re good at teaching. I mean—” He cuts himself off again. _Seriously—_ why is it that one minute, he’ll be fine at talking to Cas; but the next he’ll turn into a gibbering wreck?!

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel laughs gently. “—I think.”

Dean flushes furiously.

“What I’m trying to say—” Dean kicks himself internally. “—I get that being friends with a human is a big risk, for you—like, it’s not something you’d _want_ to go into, all things considered, and that’s totally fair enough, and justifiable, and—I mean—I just wanted to say thank you for still—y’know—talking to me.” He’s totally stumbling over his words now, they’re coming out as a slurred litany of _bullshit,_ but he can’t stop himself, because _fuck fuck fuck_ he wants Castiel to like him. “—Even though you don’t have to, and you probably don’t want to—And thank you for taking me to the protest today. I get that this wasn’t the aim of the whole thing, but it taught me a lot, and I’m really grateful for that.” _Shut up, shut up, shut up—_ “—And I get that I’m probably not your _friend,_ but—”

“You’re definitely my friend.” Castiel interrupts Dean before he can get any further. The angel’s expression is so soft and warm in the next moment that Dean is pretty sure that his whole body just crumbles into tiny little pieces; and his head swells and floats off into space. “Definitely.” He smiles and frowns at the same time, but the expression isn’t mean or mocking or anything like that; it sends butterflies shooting up Dean’s system, his insides tremble but something inside his heart roots himself to Castiel’s expression and breathes it like air, like stability, like peace. “And you’re very welcome, Dean.” Castiel continues, quietly. There’s a pause for a moment. “You know,” The angel starts, giving Dean a steady, curious look. Dean just wants Castiel to wrap himself around him and press kisses to the top of his head. “You’re really not like any of the other humans I’ve met.”

Dean’s gaze flickers back and forth, to and from Castiel. His face is flushed to such a temperature that he is sure it should be melting his surroundings.

“And that’s a good thing, just to clarify.” Castiel laughs. Dean chokes out a couple of laughs himself, his heart soaring.

“Yeah?” He stammers, fumbling with his hands. “—Tha—Thank you.” He flushes.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel chuckles softly, rolling his eyes for the umpteenth time that day—Dean might just be kidding himself, but is this an affectionate gesture? “Did you want to come in to see Ezekiel, or…?” He trails off, gesturing to the door of his room, which they have been stood outside of for quite some time now.

“Oh, right—” Dean stutters. “No—no, I actually think I’m gonna get some work done, then hit the hay—yeah—um—so, I’ll see you around, I guess?”

“I guess.” Castiel nods, his lips twitching softly upwards. “See you.”

“Thanks for everything—again—” Dean stammers.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel smiles, opening the door to his room. “Again.”

Dean forces out a nervous laugh and turns back down the corridor, his head spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, chapter six will be up soon! Please comment etc. etc. etc. !


	6. Au Revoir (Adios)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! I've had a couple of truly awful weeks, and hopefully the next update will be up very soon. Thanks for reading, anyway.

 

So maybe it wasn’t a date. But that’s okay. It’s fine that it wasn’t a date—well, of _course_ it wasn’t a date—this should be of _no_ surprise to Dean—but his heart is still soaring and he is lying awake and staring up at the ceiling thinking that if life could get any sweeter right now, the world would be made of fucking _syrup._

Benny snores softly from across the room.

Dean isn’t like other humans, according to Castiel _—“And that’s a good thing”—_ he lets the angel’s words run through his head, bouncing around his thoughts and ricocheting against the walls of his skull. He’s not like other humans—and he’s Castiel’s _friend._

He beams up at the ceiling. He doesn’t care that it wasn’t a date—just having Castiel _not_ hating him is more than enough to make Dean unbelievably, impossibly happy. Holy shit. _Holy shit._

Dean’s so fucking lame for getting so excited about all of this. He’s so fucking lame, and he doesn’t give a fuck, because Castiel counts him as a friend and Sammy and Jo and Ellen and Bobby are coming to visit him soon, and it’s nearly Christmas and he’ll be going home soon, too, and he feels like the universe is beginning to shift back into place, when it had been moving so far out of it for so many years.

 

…

 

“How was the protest?” Ezekiel asks as Castiel enters the room.

“Good.” Castiel nods absently, sitting down on his bed and pulling off his shoes.

“Dean was okay?”

“Dean was fine.” Castiel nods again, forcing himself to supress his smile and keep his voice even at the mention of the human.

“Cool.” Ezekiel says. He’s sat reading a book on nuclear physics, frowning in gentle confusion at its pages. “You were nice to him, right?” He asks, gaze flicking up from the book as he peers at Castiel from the top of its pages.

“Of course I was nice.” Castiel frowns.

“No need to sound so offended, buddy, it was a reasonable question, all things considered.”

“Yeah, okay, so maybe it was—but I really _was_ nice—”

Ezekiel snorts.

“—I told Dean he was my _friend_ —”

Ezekiel bursts out laughing.

“Woah, Castiel, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of something so kind in my _fucking life—_ you said that you’re _friends_ with Dean?! Holy shit, Cassie, slow the fuck down—you’ve gotta be careful with language like that, you know—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Castiel growls.

“No, seriously, Cassie, I think I’m gonna have to _alert the fucking media_ over this one—Castiel has a friend! A friend!” Ezekiel barks out another laugh. “A _friend_!” He exclaims again, as though for effect.

Castiel throws his pillow at Ezekiel’s head.

“You’re such a fucking idiot.” He glowers.

“I think you need a lesson on what _actually_ constitutes kindness.”

“I think _you_ need a lesson on how _not_ to annoy your roommate.”

“Castiel, if you had a fucking _cat_ for a roommate, you’d find them annoying. And cats don’t do fucking _anything._ ”

Castiel sighs and lies back on his bed.

“I am trying to be kind to Dean.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ezekiel sighs, finally deciding to let it rest.

“I do _like_ Dean.”

“I know.”

No, you don’t, Castiel thinks bitterly.

Castiel thinks of Dean’s soft green eyes and shy smile. Of his nervous laugh and how it grows warmer as he grows more comfortable. Of how he wants nothing more than for Dean to feel _completely_ at ease with him, but how that will never be possible with how much of a _dick_ Castiel has been to him for so many months, and all Castiel wants right now is for Dean to know that Castiel thinks he is perfectly fascinating and wonderful and sensitive and brilliant and quietly intelligent and beautiful, and he needs Dean to feel happy and contented and he wishes he could be the one to give that to the human; but this will never be the case—and Castiel is wishing for the impossible.

“Dean _really_ likes you—just remember that, Castiel.” Ezekiel says absently, cutting through his roommate’s thoughts. “And I don’t mean like a friend, like you do him,” _False,_ Castiel thinks sharply. “I mean _really_ likes you. Still. So please be kind to him.”

Castiel doesn’t reply.

 

…

 

“Dean!” Comes Jo’s delighted cry as she rushes up to her brother, waiting just outside campus for his family. He has watched the road in the crisp December air, waiting for the sight of the familiar family car for what feels like years—as soon as he sees it coming he breaks out into an uncontainable beam. It’ll be hard to say it to their faces, but he’s missed his family a whole fucking lot. The car has pulled up—rather clumsily—and before Bobby even has the chance to turn the engine off, both Jo and Sammy have swung open their doors and leapt out of the vehicle. Dean would be embarrassed; except he hasn’t seen either of them since the beginning of September, and he’s missed them a whole shitload. He never expected living away from them to be so hard.

Sammy and Jo both collide with Dean, both of them hugging him tightly, and Dean can’t help the teary laugh that he lets out as he squeezes Sammy’s all-to-tall body close to his own and hugs Jo tightly.

“Hey, guys.” He tries to sound casual, as though he hasn’t felt like he’s been suffocating without the comfort and security of his family; but somewhere along the way his voice cracks in his throat and he knows the gig is up before he even chokes up into the tight, warm hug Ellen gives him.

“Oh, Dean.” Ellen sighs as Jo and Sammy and Bobby hit him with a cascade of questions about college life. She squeezes his shoulders and her eyes turn a little teary as she pulls back from him.

“Hey, Ellen.” Dean can’t help but blush at her show of affection; ducking his head and glancing away—but his heart is swelling with warmth and relief, especially when Bobby claps a hand on Dean’s shoulder and asks him if he’s eating enough. They head towards Dean’s dorm to pick up his bags—Dean promises to give everyone a guided tour once they’ve got his stuff in the car—and all the while Bobby complains about how close it is to Christmas and how ridiculous it is that Dean is _only just_ able to come home. And all the way Dean smiles to himself and asks Jo about her schoolwork and the stupid guys in her class who pull her hair and call her names but then pass her notes under the table; and Sammy continues to barrage him with questions and information himself—about college and angels and how jealous he is of Dean going on a protest and how few there are westward—which Dean says is probably not true, but Sammy has already started talking about what _he_ wants to do when he leaves school; and the sentiment is lost.

“Hey, there’s a debating society here!” Sammy exclaims, pointing to a poster on the door to Dean’s building. “Are you a part of that, Dean?”

“Fuck, no.” Dean snorts out, ruffling his brother’s hair. “Can you imagine? That shit’s for total fucking _nerds—”_

“You’re on the football team and you’re not part of a debating society?!” Sammy seems personally offended by this. “What are you _doing_ with your time here, Dean—”

“Having fun, I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. He pulls out his keys and unlocks his door. “Why do you give a shit?”

“When I go to college, I’m gonna do things _so_ differently.” Sammy states absently.

“I don’t doubt it.” Dean deadpans. “Now how about you actually help out and grab some of my bags—y’know put that ridiculous height of yours to good use.”

Sam rolls his eyes but picks up two of Dean’s bags for him. As Ellen enters Dean’s room her eyes dart around the stretch of it as though she is looking for a rat, for something to complain about, and sure enough—

“Dean, why have you not cleared out your trash? It’s overflowing, _look_ —and what’s with all the junk food wrappers, anyway? What have you been eating? You _told_ me you’d try and eat healthy—”

Dean heaves a pile of coats into Ellen’s arms before she can continue.

“Do you play any other sports here, Dean?” Jo asks, picking up the box of Dean’s football gear.

Before Dean can answer, Ezekiel has appeared at the door.

“Hey, buddy!” He exclaims. “I _thought_ you told me you were leaving today, but I couldn’t be sure. So I thought I’d swing round to check.”

“Well, you were right,” Dean laughs, unsure of how to respond. “Guys—this is Ezekiel—”

But Sam has already stepped forward and introduced himself talking excitedly about what Ezekiel is doing and how he likes it and if _he_ is part of the debating society, because Dean isn’t and Dean says it’s for nerds.

“I can’t say that I am.” Ezekiel shakes his head. He smiles affectionately; the way that he often smiles at Dean, but even _more_ patronising, although Sam doesn’t seem to notice. “But Cassie is—hey, Cassie!” He calls back out onto the corridor. “Move your ass! I was right, Dean _is_ leaving today!”

Dean’s heart drops into his stomach—because the _last_ thing he wants is for his family to embarrass him in front of Castiel; and his heart, now in his stomach, begins to shrivel at the thought of Sammy attacking him with conversation the way he’s been doing to Dean for about an hour now, and the thought of Ellen doing her mortifying mother hen act; and the thought of Jo clocking that Dean is totally _besotted_ with the angel and doing her utmost to embarrass him as a result of it—and added on top of all of this, Bobby will be being grumpy and odd as he always is; and _shit,_ why has Dean got the most embarrassing family in the history of the universe?

“I am, what?” The angel frowns, his startlingly blue eyes looking rather sleepy as he appears in view of the doorway.

“Part of the debating thing.”

“Yes—I’m part of the ‘debating thing’.” He nods slowly, giving Ezekiel an odd, calculating look. “Why?”

“Is it any good? Do you get to enter any competitions?”

Dean sighs inwardly as Sam begins to speak. This is goinna be fucking _mortifying._

“And what’s this college like? What are you studying? And what do you want to do when you leave?” Sammy asks in a flurry of questions before Castiel can even draw a breath to reply. Dean groans lightly—only Castiel seems to notice, who glances at him with an odd kind of affectionate amusement. This only makes Dean despair further; because the look is warmer than any look Dean can remember causing to flicker across Castiel’s features, and Castiel hasn’t said a _word_ to Sammy yet. Of course, it shouldn’t surprise Dean; Sammy is an infinitely more likable character than Dean—he’s gentler and warmer and more transparent and less needy, and Dean _knows_ this—but fuck, it sure does make him feel inadequate.

“And is this college as good as it’s made out to be? Are the people friendly? Are they friendly to _you?_ Are you on any sports teams? Are humans here less racist than you’re used to?—Sorry if that’s offensive; I just wondered because you go to a mixed college. And what about the resources, here—are they good? Like, the library—is it big? And—”

Castiel laughs—the sound like music—and steps a little more into the room.

“Well,” he sighs – although not in a frustrated way—not in the way he sighs whenever Dean speaks to him. “The college is one of the highest ranking in the country. So yes, it’s very good; although more specifically I suppose it depends what course it is you wish to take that truly defines how good it is. I’m doing a combined course: I’m studying history and anthropology, combined with philosophy. I enjoy it a lot. I also attend a couple of English Literature lectures, but that’s more out of enjoyment than relevance to my courses. The debating society is good, although we don’t enter any regional competitions—I guess that’s something we could probably push for, however, and it’s definitely been suggested. What else did you want to know?” Castiel draws a breath, glancing upwards. “Yes, the college is just as good as is always implied; I’m on the swim team although I don’t _play_ any sports _,_ the library is big and has a great number of resources—there are actually several libraries—”

“You’re answering all the questions Dean never bothers with answering.” Jo snorts, nudging Sam, who laughs into his hand, suddenly in the position to judge Dean for the amount that he speaks.

“Dean doesn’t speak much at home?” Castiel asks, a curious frown pinching at his features.

“Not much _anymore_.” Jo shrugs. Dean’s insides tense and he glares at the ground. He feels Castiel’s gaze resting upon his features.

“Does he speak much here?” Sammy asks, his voice lightly humorous.

“He fluctuates.” Castiel shrugs. Dean glances up at the angel as sees him give a soft smile, aimed at Dean himself. “And you asked me if people are friendly here,” Castiel starts, changing the subject—Dean sends a silent prayer of thanks up to the Big Guy Himself and then flashes a look of gratitude  and relief in Castiel’s direction. The angel’s lips twitch upwards again. “Um—yes, in my experience—”

“Although Castiel doesn’t socialise much, so doesn’t have _much_ experience.” Ezekiel pipes up, grinning widely.

 _“Most_ people here are friendly.” Castiel corrects himself, rolling his eyes. “Some are _really_ annoying, if you hadn’t noticed that already,” Jo giggles at Castiel’s words, and the angel looks thoroughly pleased with himself. “And the humans here—I suppose I’m not the best judge, as Ezekiel said—I tend to avoid them…” He casts an uncomfortable look at no one in particular, and continues, “But, from the limited experience I _have_ had—the humans here are very different… Your brother is very different from what I’m used to.” He glances at Dean and offers him a quick smile. Dean’s heart is racing by at a mile a minute and he hardly notices the look.

“Different in a good way?” Jo snorts. Castiel laughs softly, too.

“Different in a good way.” He confirms.

“You took Dean on that protest didn’t you?” Sammy asks excitedly. “Was it good? Do you go on many?”

“I did take him.” Castiel confirms. “He seemed very interested. And yes, I do—”

“He does.” Ezekiel confirms, possibly for the sole sake of having some kind of impact on the conversation.

“The next one that you take Dean on, could I come, too?” Sam asks, and Dean groans internally.

“Um—” Castiel’s smile in response is utterly bemused and Dean is mortified.

“Sammy, shut up—it wasn’t… like _that—_ it was—”

“I’m sure I could.” Castiel laughs. Dean’s heart trips over itself. “Do you need any help carrying Dean’s things?” He asks, looking toward Ellen and Bobby and tactfully changing the subject.

“You can take one of these bags.” Sam suggests, heaving one of the two swung around his shoulder into Castiel’s arms. “ _Seriously,_ Dean, why the hell do you have so many things? And why are you taking them _all_ home for Christmas?”

“I don’t have _that_ many things.” Dean grumbles, looking down. He picks up his guitar case.

“I didn’t know you played.” Castiel nods to the case as Bobby makes his way out of the room, Ellen and Jo following suit. Ezekiel stands out of the way for them, which is probably the most helpful thing he can think to do right now.

“Um—not very well.” Dean blushes, looking at the ground.

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Castiel laughs good-naturedly. “Perhaps you could give me a demonstration some time.”

Dean winces.

“’Demonstration’ sounds almost _clinical,_ Castiel.” Ezekiel pipes up, laughing.

“Fine, _performance,_ then.” Castiel corrects himself, sighing softly.

“I don’t think—” Dean stammers, attempting to force out a light-hearted laugh.

“Well, it’s our loss, I’m sure.” Castiel cuts through Dean’s babbling with an understanding expression. Dean coughs into his hand and fakes a smile.

“Right.” He nods, face hot.

“Do you play anything else?” Castiel asks as Dean steps out onto the corridor.

“Uh—no—not really…” Dean stammers, yet again. “—I mean, I can _barely_ play the guitar, so—”

“And I’ve already stated that I’m sure that’s not true, although perhaps you’re only saying that to be modest.” Castiel chuckles again.

“—Not really—” Is all that comes out of Dean’s mouth. “Sammy plays the piano, though – don’t you Sammy?” Dean drags his brother into the conversation in a desperate attempt to draw the attention away from himself.

“Used to.” Sam frowns, looking over at Dean. “And you did, too, Dean.”

“Yeah, but not _well—”_

“I played the piano as a kid.” Ezekiel nods sagely. Dean resists the urge to laugh. “Got to Grade 4, not to brag or anything.”

“Did you pass your Grade 4?” Castiel asks, eyes sparking with the light of amusement.

“I think I did.” Ezekiel rubs his head, as though trying to remember. “I didn’t practice very much, but…”

Dean snorts.

“Don’t laugh, Dean!” Ezekiel exclaims, grinning.

“Are you not going away over the holidays?” Sam asks, looking over to Castiel and Ezekiel.

“I’m staying here.” Castiel shrugs. “My sister is going to stay with me over Christmas—we figured it would be nicer than spending it back down south in the—” Castiel cuts himself off as though he feels he’s said too much. He looks away.

“My dad’s picking me up tomorrow, and we’re all gonna stay up with my grandparents over the holidays.” Ezekiel states, filling the silence that follows Castiel’s answer. “Should be good.”

“Where do they live?” Sam asks, interested as ever in the lives of others.

“ _Alaska.”_ Ezekiel groans. “So it’s gonna be a long journey.”

“How are you getting there?”

“Flying, then driving.”

“At least you’ll get snow.”

“True.” Ezekiel concedes.

“Dean _hates_ flying.” Sammy grins over at Dean, who scowls and looks away. _“So_ much.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly natural, is it? If we were meant to fly, we’d have wings. Period. It’s creepy and dangerous—”

“It’s actually the least dangerous form of travel, so they say.” Castiel interrupts.

“I don’t care.” Dean glares at the ground. “And it’s not funny.”

“—I never said it was—” Castiel looks taken aback, but Dean resolves to concentrate on carrying his guitar case and music instead of participate in the remainder of the conversation.

Once back at the car, he and Ezekiel say their goodbyes.

“I’m gonna miss you, man.” Ezekiel sighs, once Dean has packed the last of his things into the back of the car, clapping Dean on the shoulder and dragging the human towards him for a hug.

“I’ll see you again in like, 3 weeks—less than that—” Dean laughs, but Ezekiel is squeezing the air out of his lungs with the strength of his embrace and Dean’s reply, and laughter, come out rather more choked than he anticipates, and he breaks into a coughing fit. “Could you—like—not—” He splutters, and Ezekiel pulls back.

“You’ve become like a little brother to me—” He starts with teary eyes.

“—How long have we known each other?” Dean frowns incredulously.

“ _A little brother.”_ Ezekiel says again, clapping his hand on Dean’s shoulder again and ruffling Dean’s hair. Dean feels pretty fucking patronised, if bemused.

“—Three months? Just over that? Four, maybe?—”

“And I’m gonna miss you.” The angel chokes out—right, he’s taking the piss, of course—

“Dude—”

“You travel safe, little Dean. _My_ Dean. You—”

Dean barks out a laugh and pulls himself out of Ezekiel’s arms.

“Shut the fuck up, ‘Zeke, or I’m gonna piss laughing at you.” He rolls his eyes. Ezekiel grins and ruffles his hair again.

He’s about to turn back to the car when he feels finger brush against his elbow, gesturing for him to stop. Dean turns around, his heart stumbling over itself as he meets the gaze of Castiel.

“I thought I ought to say goodbye as well.” Castiel laughs, the sound half-hearted and unconvincing. Right, Ezekiel probably pushed him into saying goodbye; just like he pushed Castiel into seeing Dean off, too. “So—goodbye.” Castiel says, really fucking awkwardly, and Dean’s face heats out of the fakeness of it all. “You—have a good holiday. Happy Christmas.”

“You too.” Dean nods. “Have a good one.”

“Thanks.” Castiel nods, his clearly forged smile faltering somewhat. “You, uh—you have a very nice family. I’m glad I got to see you off.”

“Yeah,” Dean frowns, having no clue where it is Castiel is going with all of this. “Thanks. I’m uh—I’m glad you did, too.”

And with that—swearing to himself that he will allow no more awkwardness to enter his life – at least for today—Dean opens his door to the car and squeezes in next to Sammy. He rolls down the window and waves to Ezekiel, who is pretend-sobbing into Castiel’s shoulder, and Dean can’t help but laugh as the car starts up.

“I’m gonna miss you, ‘Zeke.” He calls out of the open window. “I’ll see you when the holidays are over!”

“You call every day!” Ezekiel shouts back, now running after the car. “You hear me, Dean Winchester?! _Every. Day.!”_

Dean bursts out laughing and yells goodbye one more time before rolling up the window. He turns back to see his family, all giving him oddly expectant expressions—except for Ellen, who has her eyes trained on the road, as she is driving – although every now and then her gaze will flicker back to Dean and she will raise her eyebrows at him as though she’s just asked him an important question, and he has yet to answer it.

“What?” Dean frowns, building defences as soon as he can. He shrinks into his side of the car and questions whether it would be better for him to glare out of the window at this point, or return his family’s stares with a sullen expression.

“You and Ezekiel seem very close.” Sam says slowly.

“He’s my friend.” Dean glares at his brother, replying just as slowly as Sam spoke.

“ _Just_ friend?” Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Just friend.” Dean repeats, jaw clenching.

“So you don’t like him?”

“I _like_ him, although if you’re implying what I think you’re implying; then no—I don’t like him like _that_.”

“So why were you acting so weird around him?” Sammy grins triumphantly.

“I wasn’t—” Dean frowns.

“You _so_ were.” Jo replies, frowning back at Dean.

“I was not!” Dean exclaims. “He’s a _friend—”_

“You definitely weren’t acting the way you had been _before_ he came—” Ellen interjects. Dean kicks her seat. _“Dean,_ I’m _driving—”_

“I didn’t want any of you to embarrass me—there, is that good enough?! And is it really so damn surprising that I don’t act the same way around my friends as I do my family? And why do you care? Can’t you just settle with the fact that I _do not_ like him that way? Jeez—”

“He _was_ quite good-looking.” Sam leans back on his seat. “In a purely objective way, of course.”

“Well, purely objectively speaking, you can shut your damn mouth.” Dean grumbles. “He’s a friend.”

“If you weren’t getting so defensive; I would—and I’d believe you, too. But you care too much for him to _just_ be a friend.” Sam replies quickly.

“That’s not the case at all.”

“You know what, I can’t really see it with Ezekiel—he wasn’t _ugly—_ just, compared to that other angel – Castiel? He wasn’t at _Castiel’s_ standard. That guy was _beautiful.”_ Jo muses. “He was like—”

She glances over to Dean and her eyes seem to catch fire. Dean dies a little inside.

“— _Exactly_ Dean’s type.” She finishes, beaming in elated triumph. Sammy’s eyes widen and he looks over to Dean.

“ _Exactly_ Dean’s—” Sam starts, as though he’s had a religious experience.

“Look how red he’s gone!” Jo exclaims, bouncing her legs up and down with excitement. “That’s the exact shade he went when Castiel first walked into the room!”

“He _is_ Dean’s type!” Sammy exclaims again, apparently only just catching up.

“You spent the whole time that colour! And when he _spoke_ to you, Dean! Oh my—”

“He’s got dark hair just like Dean loves—and really bright eyes—and—”

“And he’s smart and—”

“—Really kind, actually, I thought—”

“I thought so too!”

“Like, friendly, but nice, too—”

“Dean _loves_ kind— _loves it—_ and Castiel seemed so cool and nice and—”

“I definitely got that vibe of him—”

“The kind vibe—”

“The compassionate and gentle and laid-back vibe—”

“Oh, yeah, without a doubt—”

“He had a nice smile.”

“He smiled with his _eyes_ , that’s what I think it was—”

“Shut up, shut up, _shut up!”_ Dean shouts, banging his head against the window. _“Shut up!”_

Jo and Sam fall quiet. He thinks he hears Jo snort softly, but he has closed his eyes and so cannot tell for certain. He imagines that Ellen has turned around to glare venomously at his younger siblings; a look that Dean has long ago decided that he is fairly certain could kill, and one that somehow says _‘Not another damn word out of any of you’_ without actually _saying_ anything.

“Dean, honey?” Ellen asks softly from the driver’s seat after a minute’s awkward, tense silence.

“ _What?”_ He groans from where he sits, eyes still closed, head still pressed hard against his window.

“He seemed lovely.”

Ellen reaches back and brushes the back of her hand against Dean’s knee for a brief, gentle moment, before returning it to the wheel of the car.

“He is.” Dean replies, still not opening his eyes.

“And I’m sure he likes you back.”

“I’m not—”

“And if he doesn’t, then who gives a damn, anyway.” Ellen lets out a soft laugh and Dean’s eyes flicker open to meet her own soft ones in the wing mirror. “You’re brilliant, and we love you, and I’ve missed you so much.”

Dean’s eyes prickle with tears, but he smiles through them, wishing them away.

“I’ve missed you too, Ellen.” He replies. “Mom.” He corrects himself. Ellen beams and reaches back to find his hand, squeezing it for a brief moment, before returning her attention to driving.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also: Medieval fantasy story should be up very soon. thanks for reading


	7. Not Yet

 

The end of the holidays brings a quiet exhaustion to everything Dean does. Even in returning to college, unpacking his things again and greeting friends, all his actions feel tired. He’s been thinking over his time away—possibly over-thinking—and has barely gotten any rest at all. But he’s decided to give up on Castiel. It’s a pretty dumb decision to make, he knows; considering the fact that he spends the vast majority of his free time in Castiel’s room, but he’s going to stick to it.

He’s tired of pining and he’s sure that Cas is tired of being pined after. And it’s getting ridiculous, honestly, because it’s got to the point where Dean has stopped doing things and enjoying things and suddenly everything is about impressing Cas instead of Dean _living_ and being happy; and it needs to stop.

And Dean has a lot of great things going for him, even without Castiel in his life.

And with that thought, Dean is tackled to the ground by something that feels a lot like a brick wall hitting him at the speed of sound.

“Dean!”

The wall has a voice. And feathers.

“Um—” Dean chokes out, utterly winded.

“I’ve missed you, buddy.” The wall ruffles Dean’s hair and laughs loudly. The wall is Ezekiel.

“I’ve missed you, too.” Dean replies, chuckling softly.

“How was your Christmas?”

“Good, thank you.” Dean says, embarrassed by the confused looks strangers walking past he and Ezekiel are giving the pair; tangled in a heap on the grass outside a lecture hall. “I uh—what about you?”

“Cold.” Ezekiel shrugs.

“That’s the thing about Alaska, I guess.”

“Yeah.” The angel hums. “So, Cas’ sister is here.”

“I see.” Dean frowns, nodding slowly.

“She’s alright, I guess.”

“She doesn’t like you, huh?”

“Pretty much.” Ezekiel sniffs, sitting up. “So I’m staying out here until she leaves.”

“When will that be?”

“This afternoon.”

“So not too long, then?”

“Not _too_ long.” Ezekiel sighs. His tone is childish and sulky, and Dean is finding it extremely difficult not to be greatly amused.

“How come she doesn’t like you?”

“She finds me annoying, I guess.”

“Who the _fuck_ could ever find _you_ annoying?” Dean bursts out laughing.

“I know, right?” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “Well anyway, you know how me and Cassie’s relationship works all because we both find each other just as annoying as the other?”

“Um—yeah?”

“Well, she’s not annoying. So there’s no balance.”

“Not annoying?”

“Not annoying _at all._ And that in itself is really freaking annoying.”

“It sounds infuriating.” Dean smirks. Ezekiel glances up at him, and his lips begin to dance upwards into an amused smile.

“I’ve missed you, man.”

“You’ve already said.” Dean laughs as Ezekiel pulls him in for another hug.

“Yeah, but I get worried that you don’t always process it, so humour me a little.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Right back at you.”

“No, I mean it. Really. Coming back here kind of sucks, but you make it suck a lot less.”

“That’s gotta be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” Ezekiel sighs in a teasingly emotional voice. Dean chuckles and pushes the angel gently, rolling his eyes.

“Are you gonna let me stand up now, or what?” Dean asks, the bemused smirk still playing at his lips.

“Uh, no.” Ezekiel shakes his head, sitting up somewhat and crossing his legs beneath him. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Haven’t you been listening, Dean?” The angel sighs, as though Dean is being utterly infuriating and completely slow. “I can’t go back in there until Rachel leaves. So you’ve gotta stay out here with me.”

“You realise there are other places to hang on campus than this lawn, right? Especially considering the fact that it’s, y’know, early January.”

“Speaking of—your birthday is coming up!”

“Not really,” Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And smooth change of the subject, by the way.”

“Hey, it’s this month, isn’t it?!” Ezekiel exclaims, apparently choosing to ignore Dean’s comment.

“Uh, yeah—”

“So it’s soon!” Ezekiel cries out, pushing Dean on the arm and grinning widely. “January the 24th, I believe?”

“Yeah—” Dean frowns. “How did you—”

“You’re my _friend,_ Dean, it’s my _job_ to know.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “That and the fact that I’m the birthday freaking _king._ I know _everybody’s_ birthday.”

“And why’s that?”

“I make it my business to know.” Ezekiel shrugs. “Everyone loves birthdays.” He says, as though this much ought to have been obvious. “What do you think you’re gonna get for yours?”

“Um—” Dean stammers, laughing. “I hadn’t given it that much thought, honestly.”

“ _Dean_ , it’s your _birthday.”_

“Not yet it’s not.” Dean shakes his head.

“In like, ten days.”

“It’s actually slightly more than that, ‘Zeke.”

“Whatever.” The angel rolls his eyes, lying back on the grass. “You know, I’m gonna get you something totally awesome. I haven’t decided what that is yet, but it’s gonna happen.”

“That’s very kind of you, ‘Zeke.” Dean smiles, lying back next to his friend. He’s decided to give up on trying to get the angel to stand up, and forces himself to ignore the confused stares of students passing by. “But you really don’t—”

“What kind of things do you want? Do you want me to work along a theme? How about I throw you a party! That’d be fun—we could get the whole football team together—”

“You know, there’s really no need—”

“But there _is.”_

“But why?”

“’Cause it’s you.” Ezekiel shrugs. “’Cause you’re a friend—a good friend, and I think you sometimes forget how cool a person you are.”

“Cool?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Cool here being synonymous for good. Kind. Worthy of nice things.”

Dean opens and shuts his mouth.

“You’re really embarrassing, you know.”

“I know.” Ezekiel grins widely.

“And I think your whole ‘really freaking annoying but kind of funny so is able to get away with it thing’ is a bit of an act, to be honest.”

“Oh really?” Ezekiel laughs, bursting out laughing.

“Really.” Dean beams, nodding sagely.

“Well, first of all, I’m not ‘ _kind of funny’;_ I’m fucking hilarious—” Dean snorts loudly at Ezekiel’s words. “—Second of all, and I hate to break it to you, Dean—but it’s not an act.”

“It’s not an act?” Dean laughs incredulously.

“It’s not an act.” Ezekiel repeats, his lips twitching upwards. “And why is that so hard to believe, anyway?”

“Because you understand people too well to be able to annoy them as much as you do without at least _meaning_ to.”

“Maybe me meaning to be annoying is part of what _makes_ me so annoying.”

“I think you do it because you find it funny.” Dean states.

“Well, it is.” Ezekiel shrugs.

“You like watching people get infuriated.” Dean says. “But not in some weird, messed up way. I think you find it kind of endearing.”

“If you want to know the true nature of a man, just piss him off for a bit. And examine his reaction.”

“So that’s all you’re doing when you’re trying to piss people off? Learn more about them?”

“That and, it can be pretty endearing, yeah.” Ezekiel admits. “And it’s super entertaining to do. _Especially_ with Castiel.”

“But not me?”

“You’re not very easy to annoy.” Ezekiel sighs. “And anyway, when I _do_ piss you off, I just end up feeling kind of guilty about it, anyway.”

“Guilty?”

“Yeah. Guilty.” Ezekiel confirms, not elaborating. “And you’re so laid back anyway,” Dean laughs inwardly at this definite lie—“and entertaining as well. Like, you’re a funny guy. So I don’t need to piss you off to be amused.”

“There are plenty of funny people out there, ‘Zeke—”

“And I choose you to hang around with.” Ezekiel grins. “Feel honoured, Dean.”

“I do.” Dean rolls his eyes. “You know, out of all the conversations we’ve had—and there are definitely a lot of them—this is probably the deepest one yet.”

“I know right?! How weird. What do we even _normally_ talk about?”

“Usually it’s just you complaining about football practice or Cas.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Ezekiel nods. “Or my workload. I’m really behind on it, you know.”

“Are you even _not?”_ Dean asks.

“That’s a fair point. And I start every new year with a massive can-do attitude, but nothing ever comes of it.”

“A lot of people do that, you know.”

“Yeah, but I feel like an _especially_ unproductive person.”

“Maybe you’re just the universe’s way of balancing the force that is Castiel.”

“I’m the universe’s way of countering Cassie’s _weirdness_ with my own force of weirdness? Is that what you’re saying?” Ezekiel snorts, clearly utterly bemused.

“Pretty much.” Dean nods, grinning. “Like, a set of scales. You cancel each other out.”

“We do, do we?” The angel hums lightly.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms again. “Think about it—in pretty much everything, you’re like _complete_ opposites. It’s a wonder you get along so well—”

“Well, first of all, ‘so well’ is probably a _bit_ of an exaggeration.” Ezekiel smirks, interrupting Dean. “And second of all, I think we _do_ get along—y’know, however much that might actually be— _because_ we’re so different.”

“That’s what I’m saying—but think about it, ‘Zeke—you’re like, the most chilled out person I know. Like, you don’t give a fuck about _anything._ And you don’t treat _anything_ seriously—everything’s a joke to you – and then there’s Castiel; who takes everything in the history of _ever_ seriously, and who barely ever smiles, let alone laughs, and who gives a whole buttload of fucks about _everything._ And you hardly work at all, while Castiel’s workload is _concerningly_ impressive, like, he spends pretty much all his time working. And you’re neat and tidy—surprisingly so, actually—and Cas’ side of the room is a complete _tip_ of incense and books and polaroid’s _—_ and Cas is a huge fucking hippy and you’re _definitely_ not—”

“And I get that we’re very different people, Dean,” Ezekiel laughs, “and you _definitely_ didn’t need to tell me that for me to know—but no offense, or anything—but your theory is kind of fucked.”

“Fucked?” Dean repeats.

“Yeah.” Ezekiel nods, matter of factly. “As in, it’s shit.”

“Well, I never called it a _theory—”_

“You acted like it was.” Ezekiel snorts. “And I’m a _scientist,_ Dean, so I know what constitutes a theory and what doesn’t.”

“’Zeke, I never said it was a _fact—_ I just said it was _weird—_ if anything, it was a _joke—”_ Dean attempts to retort, feeling somewhat defensive, but Ezekiel speaks over him.

“And who do you think your opposite would be? Do you think you have one, too, if we do have them? And if Castiel and I are indeed the universe’s way of balancing energies out, like positive and negative forces acting on each other—then who do you think counteracts _your_ force on the universe?”

“I don’t know.” Dean admits, shrugging. “I haven’t given it much thought. And it wasn’t a _serious_ comment, ‘Zeke, I’ve already told you—I was only joking—”

“Yeah, but let’s say that it’s real—that everyone’s got an equal and opposite reaction to them in the world; in the form of a person. Do you think you’ve met yours? Do you think you ever will?”

“I don’t know, ‘Zeke—” Dean sighs.

“’Cause the way I see it, Dean—you’re a little ball of contradictions. You’re like, I don’t know—you aren’t anything I can summarise with any ease. Maybe that’s why you’re so appealing to people—and people love you, Dean, they really do—because you’re… Not anything that can be put into words. You’re nice, sure, but then you can also be a prick—and I’ve seen you be a prick. And you’re kind, but then—y’know?”

“I don’t think I do,” Dean frowns softly.

“Like, you’re confident—but then at other times you’re really fucking shy. And smart—but then not in the way you’d expect—and you hate so many things, but love so many others—and I think the only way I could _really_ describe you is by the things you’ve touched, by the things you’re connected to; like me, like football, like your family—only _tangible_ things.” Ezekiel sighs. “Does that make sense?” He asks, looking over to Dean with curious eyes.

“Not really, no.” Dean admits honestly, shaking his head. “And I think everyone’s like that, really. Difficult to sum up. I don’t think anyone can really _explain_ anyone else, not even themselves. I think we’re all too complex for that. And everyone has clashing traits, and inconsistencies, and of course we’re all mysteries. We’re people. If we weren’t any of those things, we _wouldn’t_ be people. It’s weird when people say shit like that, implying that someone’s more than just a person—‘cause, like, we’re not. None of us are. You can’t deify any of us—and you shouldn’t. It doesn’t make sense—”

“Maybe you should take some of your own advice and stop deifying Cassie, then.” Ezekiel smirks.

“I never did.” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve always known that he was a very flawed guy—you _introduced_ him to me by listing his flaws, in fact.”

“I did.” Ezekiel admits. “But you remember the gods in Greek myths? Those guys are flawed. And yet they’re still gods. You have a feeling you’ve been doing that with Cassie?”

“’Zeke, I’m not enjoying this conversation.” Dean sighs.

“Sorry.” The angel smirks. “Anyway, me and Castiel, two sides of the same coin, equal and opposite reactions, and still friends. Despite it all.”

“Despite it all.” Dean nods absently. “You’ve gotta admit that it is quite an impressive feat.”

“Well, it’s not just a case of me _liking_ Castiel, or simply being friends with him—he’s like a brother to me, Dean.”

“Please, Ezekiel,” Dean snorts, “you say _everyone_ is like a brother to you.”

“Not everyone.” Ezekiel objects, although his amused smile betrays him, somewhat. “And anyway, I’ve never had a brother—or a sister, for that matter. Is it so unnatural for me to want to find my…” He pauses a moment, as though thinking of a word. “…Spiritual siblings, elsewhere?”

 _“Spiritual siblings?”_ Dean repeats, bursting out laughing and spitting out his repetition of Ezekiel’s words.

“Yes, spiritual siblings.” Ezekiel replies, matter-of-factly. “You know, like soul-mates, kindred spirits, that kind of thing. You were lucky, you have a brother and sister. I’d kill for that kind of thing.”

“You’d _kill_ for it?” Dean raises his eyebrows incredulously.

“Alright, sooner or later, Dean, you’re gonna have to stop repeating everything I say with that tone of voice. It’s getting really freaking annoying.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “And no, not _kill_ for. But the point stands: you’re lucky. Not everyone has what you have.”

“I don’t think _lucky_ is quite the way I’d put it.” Dean replies, sighing slightly.

“Hey, I’ve met your family—they’re great!”

“Great, sure—but Sam and Jo are annoying little shits, too—”

“Dean, annoying little shits is _fine_ compared to no shits at all!” Ezekiel exclaims.

Dean bursts out laughing at what the angel has just said, but apparently Ezekiel didn’t intend for it to be funny, and doesn’t want to dwell on the comedy of his comment for any amount of time, because he only pulls an exasperated expression and continues, regardless of Dean’s amusement.

“I’m _serious,_ Dean—and you know what I mean. Your family is _nice—”_

“They’re _embarrassing”_ Dean corrects.

“And so am I!” Ezekiel points out. “I embarrass you all the time!”

“Yeah, you’re just like them, that way.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“Hey, man, better embarrassing then dead-ass freaking boring.” Ezekiel replies drolly.

“What do you mean?” Dean frowns at his friend, drawing his knees up to his chest. Ezekiel does the same.

“What I mean,” The angel sighs, punctuating each word by ripping out a handful of grass at each syllable, his tone harsh and tired sounding, “is that I have no brothers or sisters, and my family is _boring.”_

“They can’t be _that_ boring,” Dean says, already regretting his words because Ezekiel rolls his eyes and lies back on the grass, again, letting out a loud huff of air of obvious disagreement.

“You wanna know what my parents are, Dean?” He asks, glaring up at the sky. “They’re _accountants._ Do you know how dull accounting is? All that stupid math and—”

“You take physics, ‘Zeke.” Dean interrupts, frowning again. “That’s a pretty mathsy subject, too, y’know.”

“Yes, I had noticed, thanks Dean.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes once more. “But physics is dissecting the _universe_ and learning about everything that composes it—everything that composes _everything—_ as far as I’m concerned, it’s the most romantic and _awesome_ subject out there; it’s fucking beautiful—you realise the universe is learning _about itself_ when we’re studying physics and learning about the universe, right? Physics is what makes everything possible, it’s motion and stillness and the mess of light and dark and dust and planets that is our home—and of _course_ I want to learn about that and of course I don’t want to follow in the family footsteps and become a fucking _accountant.”_

Dean looks at Ezekiel with more understanding than he thinks he ever has.

The angel continues, growing still more passionate.

“Accountancy is _money_ math, Dean—it’s not anything fun or mechanical; it’s not reassuring in its consistency in the way that normal math is—it’s _terrible;_ it feels so shallow and boring and I think my parents are shallow and boring for doing it and wanting to push me into it as well—they think it’s security – people always need money, right? Companies always need to keep track of their money, right? – But who wants security if it comes in that form, _really_?”

“I’m sure a lot of accountants would—”

“Beg to differ, I know.” Ezekiel sighs, rolling his eyes. “But you know what? While yeah, inevitably, there are gonna be interesting people who also happen to be accountants out there, the job itself is _never_ gonna be interesting to me. _Money_ is boring—and our obsession with it is dull and pointless and doesn’t make life _any_ better. You wanna know what my dad is, Dean?” Ezekiel asks, glancing over to Dean and raising his eyebrows.

“An accountant, you _said_ —” Dean starts, frowning, but Ezekiel interrupts him before he can continue.

“An accountant for _an accounting firm.”_ He sighs out the words as though they leave a bitter taste in his mouth yet he is too tired to spit them out. “An accountant _for a fucking accounting firm.”_ He repeats, and Dean can’t help but bark out a laugh. “Dude, if there was _anything_ out there that could possibly be more banal than being an accountant, it’s being one for a fucking _firm_ of them—and I can’t even deal with the _thought_ of going down their career path; the idea is so dull.”

“And now I think I know why you’re so caught up with surrounding yourself with things that you find amusing.” Dean says slowly.

“To make up for the extreme lack of interesting things that I’ll face whenever I go home.” Ezekiel nods, his tone droll. “And accounting is just as sign of how _stupidly_ obsessed we all are with money, like I said—and _that’s_ what I really hate. Physics is so endlessly fascinating and poetic and beautiful and _money_ is just… we let it run our lives, you know? And _why_ do we do that, anyway? I worked hard to get into this college—harder than is usual for me, which I know isn’t saying much, but still. And why did I work hard to get into this college? Because my parents wanted me to, because it’s a good college, because a degree from this place will get me a good job. And why do I want a good job?”

“Money?” Dean asks.

“Because if I get a good job with a good income I’ll be able to look after my parents when they retire, and when _I_ have kids – and notice that this is a _when,_ not an _if,_ Dean; a whole other topic of annoyance – when I have kids, my good job will be able to afford to send them into a good college, so that _they_ can get good jobs and buy houses with white picket fences and look after me when _I_ grow old and retire and send _their_ children to nice schools and nice colleges—and see, Dean, it never fucking ends and it never finds any fucking peace!”

This isn’t the first time Dean has heard this particular speech from anyone, and although he agrees with it, the sentiments aren’t exactly revolutionary.

“I know, ‘Zeke, the status quo _sucks_ —”

“But it’s _not_ just that, Dean,” Ezekiel sighs, exasperated. “Like, I could apply meaning to fucking _bottle tops—_ we all could; and _they_ could be our currency, and we would spend our lives thinking about them and investing with them and pining after them and it’d be so stupid, because they’re not exactly necessary for survival, are they? And people would _die_ just because they didn’t have enough of them; just like people do _now—_ and how fucking terrible! We ought to be ashamed of ourselves! We value money more than we do _people—_ we don’t give people houses because even though we have plenty of free ones, they can’t be ‘given’ to people without fucking _massive_ sums of this essentially worthless substance that we apply so much meaning to—and all the while, people are sleeping on cardboard! And overseas, people are being _exploited_ just so we can buy our clothing or coffee or _whatever_ it is on the cheap! How…” Ezekiel pauses, as though lost for words. “ _Shameful!_ I’m ashamed! Of all of us! So of course I don’t want to go into accountancy and have to think about money, the root of so much evil, all day long—and of course I want to go into physics, the most beautiful and understated and subtle and poetic thing out there. Of course I love it; for one thing, we don’t look at _people_ in physics, we look at planets and forces and space and what makes up _everything._ And I swear, if I had to look at people in any amount of academic detail; I’d grow to hate pretty much all of us. The selfishness would grow stifling. I couldn’t take that.”

“That’s another difference between you and Cas, then.” Dean remarks.

“What?”

“Castiel is studying the humanities, and on paper, loves people. In real life, _definitely_ not. You’re doing sciences, and on paper, you can’t seem to stand anyone. But in real life, you think everyone is _brilliant.”_

Ezekiel laughs. It brings quite a change in tone.

“Yeah, that’s true.” Silence falls for a moment, and he sniffs and continues staring up at the sky. “I think there’s a big plague on our culture, Dean, and it’s the obsession with surviving. We—well, people in general—live with their heads stuck in both the past and the future, and all the while they’re wishing away the present. They dream of the better days that have passed them by—chances are, when they were kids, when buildings were taller and grown-ups were superheroes and the world didn’t seem quite so simultaneously big and small – and then they look to the future, too; to this fucked up dream they all seem to have about the world of tomorrow being a bit more okay. And they cling to it. They cling to it like it’s everything they have; forgetting everything they _do_ have, because we’re encouraged only to live in nostalgia and hope. They wish their weekdays away, living for a Friday fucking night; and then when the weekend comes, they spend it asleep. You know how fucked that is, Dean? Wishing five sevenths of your week was over just because you get to spend the next two sevenths unconscious, or as near to it as possible? I don’t want to live like that. That’s not living. I don’t want to _survive—_ people, they seem obsessed with just _getting by_ until the next great thing – chances are, that ‘great thing’ is just a one night stand and then a lie-in on a Sunday—but I want to _live._ I mean, we wish away so many moments of brilliance in the hope that the next one will be just that—brilliant—and we’re never satisfied—but every moment we have is a gift, Dean!” Ezekiel is riling himself up again; his tone, which had grown softer and more tired is becoming fiercely passionate and angry once more, and Dean doesn’t think he’s ever seen Ezekiel care about anything quite as much as this.

“Every moment!” The angel repeats. “We live in a world saturated with so much beauty and brilliance! How could we forget that? How dare we forget that?! And it’s not just a matter of living each day like it’s your last, or whatever the bullshit phrase is; because by definition you only get _one_ of those days and if we all lived that way then the chances are most people would just be _pricks_ to one another—and we can never know when our ‘last day’ is gonna be, anyway, so why bother with that?! Each day isn’t our last, but each day _is_ a gift! We’re alive! We should live! We should be kind to each other and make one another laugh and be honest and say how we feel whenever we feel it and fill our world with as much positivity and radiance as possible—because if one day you look back, sat in your office or on your couch or in your bed or on your _deathbed—_ and you feel even a _hint_ of regret at not living each day like the blessing it was; then everyone who’s touched your life—including you—has failed. You don’t regret the presence of something, only the absence of it. So _do, now, live,_ share everything you earn and laugh at everything that’s funny and love everyone you meet, because one day the air is gonna leave your lungs for good and the universe will keep turning like your life never happened; so _you’ve_ got to make your life a good one.”

Ezekiel pants, quite out of breath by the end of his speech, and sighs a moment as he and Dean sit in silence.

“And that, Dean, is why I think the status quo sucks.”

Dean bursts out laughing. Ezekiel smirks.

“ _And_ why I don’t want to be an accountant.” The angel adds.

“Good reasons.” Dean hums, nodding his head. He glances up at Ezekiel. “Do you think Rachel will be gone, by now?” He asks. Ezekiel shrugs.

“Chances are.” He says. “No harm in checking, anyway.” He sits up on the grass. “You know, this really _has_ been a pretty deep conversation.” He grins.

“Definitely.” Dean nods, chuckling. “I’ve seen sides of you today I never would have believed existed. Absolutely mind blowing.”

“Isn’t it?” The angel waggles his eyebrows. “I like to surprise people by being secretly capable of deep conversations when I give off the vibe of having the emotional complexity of a slug.”

“Slugs can be pretty complex.” Dean shrugs, pulling Ezekiel up off the grass.

“They’re just snails without the shell.” Ezekiel deadpans. “Literally, if you could simplify a fucking _snail,_ you’d get a slug.”

“I’m not _quite_ sure that’s how it really is,” Dean frowns softly as he and Ezekiel amble slowly back to Castiel and Ezekiel’s dorm. “But I’ll go with it.”

“Thanks, man.” Ezekiel grins. “You know,” He says, wrinkling his nose, “slug is such an ugly word.” He grimaces. “Ew. Slug. _Slug._ Ew.”

Dean bursts out laughing and nods in agreement.

“Yeah, I never really thought about it, but I guess they are.” He agrees thoughtfully.

“A disgusting name for a disgusting little critter.”

“I’m sure they do _some_ good to the eco-system.” Dean frowns pensively. “And anyway, you compared yourself to them just a moment ago.”

“No,” Ezekiel corrects, sighing loudly. “I said _other people_ compare me to them. _I_ never do.”

“I don’t think they do,” Dean shakes his head, still chuckling. “If you were an animal, you definitely wouldn’t be a slug.”

“We’re all animals anyway, Dean.” Ezekiel points out. “But what do you think I’d be?”

“I don’t know,” Dean shrugs reflectively. “Something loud,” He laughs, “and full of energy.”

“A kid?” Ezekiel asks, grinning as he opens the door to his building and holds it open for Dean.

“No,” Dean laughs, “not a kid. I meant _animal_ animal, not _person—”_

“If you were an animal, Dean, you’d be a duck.” Ezekiel says, nodding his head slowly as though he believes his comment to be very sage.

“A _duck?!”_ Dean repeats, wrinkling his nose. “Why a fucking _duck?!”_

“Think about it, Dean,” Ezekiel grins. “You’re like, _everything_ that I think of when I think of ducks.”

“And what the hell do you think of when you think of ducks?!”

“You like to swim, right?”

“ _That’s one thing!”_ Dean finds himself exclaiming. Ezekiel seems to find Dean’s frustration to be of infinite amusement. “And _everyone_ likes to swim!”

“Not everyone.” Ezekiel shrugs. “And not as much as you.”

“You don’t even _know_ how much I like to swim—I’ve never said I _loved_ it—all I’ve ever told you is that yes, on occasion, I _will_ go swimming!”

Ezekiel continues giggling.

 _“I am not a duck!”_ Dean exclaims, glowering at Ezekiel in fierce irritation—and just his luck, this is the moment Castiel decides to open the door to his room and come walking out, his sister behind him.

“…I never said you were…” Castiel’s features pinch into a frown as he stares at Dean in confusion; and Ezekiel is nearly _pissing_ with laughter on the floor now, slapping his hand against the ground in unabashed hysterics so hard that it ought to hurt.

“—No, I know—I—” Dean stammers out, and Ezekiel is still crying with mirth on the floor, his face wrinkling up with how hard he is laughing. “—I was—talking to Ezekiel—it was stupid—”

“And why did you think he thought you _were_ a duck?” Castiel’s sister asks, and Dean only just remembers that he’s in _her_ presence, too; and his embarrassment multiplies tenfold. He glances at her—she looks surprisingly dissimilar to Castiel; long blonde hair with wings almost exactly the same colour—but she doesn’t look as though she’s mocking Dean, right now – although she is smiling with warm amusement. She has dropped her bags on the floor and stands, her arms half crossed next to Castiel.

“We were—uh,” Dean stammers, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know when you pair people with animals?”

“No…” Castiel continues to frown gently, as though still utterly confused.

“You’ve never done that before, Cassie?” Rachel asks, turning to her brother and letting out a disbelieving laugh. “What did you _do_ when you were bored in classes back home?”

“I learned.” Castiel frowns at his sister, now.

“Well,” Rachel laughs, shaking her head and turning back to Dean, “you pair someone with an animal based on what they look like, what their personality is. It can take _ages—_ but then when you finally do it, you feel like a complete idiot for taking so long to realise! Like,” She turns back to Castiel, squinting slightly and screwing up her mouth as though deep in thought, “you would be a kitten. A really confused, grumpy kitten.”

Ezekiel _really_ fucking loses it, this time.

“A kitten?” Castiel repeats, still looking perplexed. “Why on earth that?”

“—You’d be a little black kitten with blue eyes. Maybe black and white. Maybe black and white and _beige_ to match the trench coat you wear all the time. Oh shit, you’d be so _cute!”_ Ezekiel giggles, and Castiel glowers and rolls his eyes. “I _love_ this game!”

“Well first of all, Dean is not a _duck,”_ Castiel bites, gesturing to Dean as though it were the most ridiculous suggestion in the world, and Dean shifts awkwardly. “And secondly, what do you think _you_ would be?”

“Well, Dean said he thought it was a wrong suggestion of mine to say slug, but I still—”

Castiel snorts despite himself.

“Slug isn’t quite right.” Rachel shakes her head thoughtfully. “I don’t know what you were going for with that, but—”

“Annoying.” Ezekiel interrupts. “We were talking about how annoying I am, I think.”

“Slugs aren’t _annoying,_ they’re just useless.” Castiel frowns.

“Thanks.” Ezekiel grins, winking at his friend.

“We were talking about your emotional complexity, actually.” Dean corrects, shaking his head, and Rachel seems to find this greatly amusing.

“Now that’s _much_ more understandable,” She nods, and Ezekiel turns to Dean and gives him an _I-told-you-she-hates-me_ look, but Dean isn’t convinced that Rachel is laughing out of dislike for Ezekiel. “Though I still don’t think you’d be a _slug…”_

“If Dean was a kitten, he’d have sandy brown fur and really green eyes.” Ezekiel beams, looking at Dean. “He’d be _adorable.”_

“Shut up, ‘Zeke.” Dean glowers, shaking his head and looking away.

“Ezekiel would be something _really_ loud,” Castiel muses. “—A parrot?”

This time, Dean is the one to laugh.

“I’m not a parrot,” Ezekiel glares indignantly at his roommate.

“Really, ‘Zeke—‘cause you sure do talk a lot.” Dean grins. Ezekiel pushes him irritably.

“Parrots have no substance.” He glowers. “I can’t believe you think I’m a _parrot.”_

“Dean would be a puppy.” Castiel laughs, looking Dean up and down. “Maybe an Alsatian. Or a Labrador. Or a Golden retriever. Maybe a mix of those.”

“If you were a dog, Cassie, you’d be a collie.” Rachel giggles.

“I don’t know what you mean by that—”

“They’re very serious.” Rachel says, mocking Castiel’s expression, voice, and mannerisms almost perfectly. “Very stern. Very severe.”

“No they’re not,” Castiel shakes his head, glaring at his sister. “And neither am I.” He adds, an afterthought—but the defence seems to lose its strength due to its late addition; and Castiel seems to realise this, because he bats Rachel when she starts laughing again. “Rachel, you need to start heading back, now.” He rolls his eyes. “Come on.”

“Right,” Rachel nods, picking up her bags again. “I’m Rachel, by the way.” She giggles, holding out her hand to Dean.

“Dean,” He replies, shaking Rachel’s hand.

“Nice to meet you.” She smiles, amusement tingeing her features. “This was fun.” She chuckles.

Dean snorts.

“Definitely.” He agrees. “However brief it was.”

“You know, Ezekiel would probably be a dog, if he were an animal.” Rachel muses, waving goodbye to ‘Zeke. “A loud one.”

 “Why’s that?”

“Playful, noisy, can be really annoying—but ultimately kind of endearing.” Dean grins, winking at Ezekiel and ruffling his hair.

“Thanks, buddy.” Ezekiel replies, rolling his eyes.

Rachel giggles and turns down the corridor, Castiel following after her. He turns to the others and waves briefly, giving a _I’ll-be-back-soon_ look, and Ezekiel tugs Dean into his room.

“I told you she hated me.” He deadpans with some kind of bitter victory in his voice.

“Who?” Dean asks, confused. “Rachel?”

Ezekiel nods in confirmation, but Dean snorts out a disbelieving laugh.

“I think you’re paranoid about nothing, ‘Zeke.” He shakes his head. “She definitely doesn’t.”

“She definitely _does.”_ Ezekiel corrects, sitting down on his bed. “She’s just very polite about it.”

“She doesn’t really look much like Castiel,” Dean muses, deciding to change the subject.

“No, she doesn’t.” Ezekiel agrees absently, picking up a book on the universe up from his bed and paging through it. “She doesn’t _act_ much like him, either.” He states. “Much less awkward.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, frowning softly. “Much less.”

 

…

 

“So, that guy—Dean?”

“What about him?” Castiel asks, glancing over at his sister, confused.

“He seemed nice.” She shrugs, as though it is merely a passing thought. Castiel knows that it can’t be this simple, however, and frowns slightly.

“Yes,” He nods. “He is.”

“ _Very_ nice.” Rachel says, looking about her surroundings as though they are more interest to her than this conversation. But that _can’t_ be true—because she has seen the campus hundreds of times on her visits to Castiel and has never taken a great amount of interest in it before—and she was the one who started the conversation.

“Why do you ask?” Castiel continues to frown, his expression like a guard against whatever it is Rachel chooses to say next.

“No need to look so defensive, Castiel.” Rachel exclaims, giggling—and Castiel groans inwardly, because even this, so seemingly innocent at first, is a calculated comment on his sister’s part.

 _“Why do you ask?”_ Castiel repeats, biting his words through clenched teeth.

“He’s a human.” Rachel says simply, her tone innocent and light.

“Yes, he is.” Castiel confirms tersely.

“And, you were speaking to him.” Rachel states again, tone still guiltless and light-hearted.

“Yes, I was.” Castiel confirms again, looking away from his sister.

“He a friend of yours, then?” Rachel asks, this time betraying her interest and amusement by the flicker of a smile that breaks out across her features.

“Yes.” Castiel nods, looking away. “I suppose.”

“ _Just_ a friend?” Rachel asks, the punctuation of her words losing their carelessness. “Or maybe something more?”

“Yes.” Castiel says, glowering. “—As in—just a friend.” He sputters, and Rachel bursts out into a fit of giggles. “Nothing more.” He shakes his head.

“You had to think a little too long about that one for me to believe it.” Rachel titters.

“Why do you ask?” Castiel presses on, ignoring his sister’s rather loud signs of amusement.

“I just…” Rachel’s lips twitch upwards into a sly smile. “I saw you looking at him.”

“…So?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“You looked at him like he was something quite special.” Rachel shrugs, the innocent, careless tone returning to her voice.

“Everyone’s special, Rachel…” Castiel sighs, treading a little faster, now.

“You know what I mean.” Rachel nearly _accuses_ Castiel in her tone; taking a few fast steps to keep up with her brother.

“I’m sure I don’t.” Castiel denies stubbornly, shaking his head.

“He _was_ very cute…” Rachel says thoughtfully, apparently trying a different tactic, now. It’s not going to work, Castiel resolutely tells himself. _It’s not going to work. And he’s not going to fall for it._

“I wouldn’t know.” Castiel replies stiffly.

“ _Please,_ Castiel,” Rachel sighs, rolling her eyes. “What about those green eyes of his? They’re pretty nice?”

“You just say that because green is your favourite colour.” Castiel retorts, still terse with defensiveness.

“He looks like he plays a lot of sport, you know…” Rachel muses, running a hand in feigned thoughtlessness through her hair. Castiel isn’t going to rise to it; isn’t going to bite the bait.

“Football.” He replies, perhaps too quickly. _Shit._ “And baseball. And he swims, sometimes.”

“Hey, you swim too!” Rachel beams. “Do you ever run into him?”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head.

“He seemed a little shy…” Rachel states pensively.

“He is.” Castiel nods. “I think.” A frown pinches at his features.

“You think?” Rachel repeats, puzzled.

“He is around me.” Castiel corrects himself.

 _“Around you.”_ Rachel repeats, giggling.

“Yes, that’s what I said.” Castiel sighs. “Please don’t laugh.”

“So he’s shy around you, but not anyone else.”

“No, he’s definitely shy around other people, too.” Castiel shakes his head. “Just…”

“You in particular?” Rachel raises her eyebrows, a sly smile forming at the corners of her mouth.

“…I guess…” Castiel confirms, feeling his insides shrivel with embarrassment.

“I see.” Rachel says thoughtfully, a quietly amused beam stretching across her features. There is a brief silence—it feels agonisingly uncomfortable to Castiel.

“You know,” Rachel says, breaking the pause in conversation, “he—Dean, that is—would be just your type, if he wasn’t a human.”

“You spoke to him for what, two minutes?” Castiel sighs, looking upwards in irritation.

“And I know you well, what can I say?” Rachel giggles. “The point is,” She says, swinging around to prod Castiel’s shoulder accusingly. “I think you like him, too.”

“You don’t know that he likes me.” Castiel frowns.

“ _Castiel,”_ Rachel sighs, as though her brother is being utterly irritating. “You practically _admitted_ he did, just now.”

Castiel looks down.

“ _And,”_ Rachel continues, the triumph growing in her voice, “you didn’t deny it when I accused you of liking him.” She grins broadly.

“ _Accused_ is a bit of an ugly word for this situation, don’t you think?” Castiel mutters, looking away.

“And you’re still not denying it!” Rachel nearly shouts, bouncing up and down on the tips of her toes excitedly. “Are you?!”

Castiel groans and looks at the sky.

“You _like_ him!” She exclaims. “Does he know?!”

“Of _course_ not!” Castiel bites, wrinkling his nose. “And I don’t _like_ him—I just…” He struggles for words, grasping at straws of thought and coherency. “…He’s cute, I guess. Is that good enough for you?”

“He’s _very_ cute.” Rachel corrects, turning around again, her smile smug.

“I suppose.” Castiel replies stiffly. He hasn’t admitted this aloud to _anyone._

“And shy.” Rachel beams.

“That’s part of his cuteness.” Castiel retorts before he can stop himself.

“You know,” Rachel says slowly, looking at Castiel with a softer smile etched across her feature, now. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, if you _did_ like him.”

“But it would be,” Castiel sighs defeatedly, looking upwards and running a dejected hand through his hair.

“You think it would be what? Some kind of betrayal of angels, if you did?” Rachel asks, glancing over to Castiel.

“That doesn’t _half_ cover it,” Castiel groans, “but yes.”

“Well,” Rachel says, “I don’t think it would be, at all. Dean is nice?”

“Very.” Castiel nods.

“And not racist?”

“Inevitably, he’s a little.” Castiel sighs again.

“But not out-and-out racist? And prepared to, y’know,”

“Correct any mistakes he makes?”

“Yeah. Examine his privilege, and all that?”

“Yes…” Castiel confirms, looking down. “Remarkably…”

“And he doesn’t complain when you rant at him about social justice?” Rachel asks, giggling.

“He went on a protest with me.” Castiel admits. “He asks me questions about it—I mean, if anything, he _encourages_ it…”

“And you like him as a person?”

“He’s…” Castiel struggles for words. _“Different.”_ He says. “Not good or bad different; not different for the sake of being different—just… Refreshing, you know? Faulted and sad and nice and not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

He groans.

“But I _can’t.”_ He says.

“Well, no one’s forcing you to.” Rachel shrugs. “But it sounds like when you make up your mind; Dean will still be there, waiting for you.” A small smile twitches at her features and Castiel’s heart pangs with something unknown and new at his sister’s words. “Here’s my bus,” Rachel states, her smile changing somewhat; becoming less thoughtful and more affectionate. She gestures as she speaks, and Castiel glances behind her and sees that, sure enough, her bus is approaching.

“Are you okay with your bags?” He asks, glancing down at her luggage.

“Yes, Castiel.” She nods, laughing musically.

“And you know the route?”

“Castiel,” She continues giggling. “I’ve done this journey a thousand times before.”

“I know, I know,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head. “I just worry, that’s all.”

Rachel pulls him towards her for a hug.

“Until I next see you, Cassie,” Her voice comes out muffled against his shoulder. “I hope you have a good one.”

“You too.” He replies, smiling widely.

“Do right by yourself.” She says, pulling back and patting him on the shoulder. Castiel squints a moment in confusion, but she has already stepped back and is gathering her things to get on the bus. “See you soon!” She beams.

“See you sooner.” He replies, smiling warmly.

“Study hard!” She winks as she boards the bus.

“When have I ever not?!” He calls after her. Rachel grins from the vehicle and waves a last goodbye to Castiel. He waves back.

On the walk back to his dorm, he thinks about all that his sister has said. And he thinks a _lot_ about Dean.


	8. The Beers

 

“Dean!” Ezekiel shouts, tackling Dean to the ground for what feels like the fiftieth time in the space of a month. “It’s your birthday!”

“Uh—” Dean grunts, heaving the massive weight of the football-playing-weight-lifting-fully-rown-eats-like-nothing-else angel off of him. _Seriously,_ the guy is really freaking heavy. “—Yes.” He nods, stuttering as his hands press at the angel’s shoulders, attempting to shove the massive weight off him. “Can you—”

“I’ve got you a present!” Ezekiel exclaims, rolling off Dean—who gasps in a sigh of relief and thinks silently that he’s probably going to have a lot of bruises as a result of the ordeal. “A _lot_ of presents.”

“Oh—thank you—”

“The first one is a party!” The angel shouts excitedly, pushing Dean on the shoulder and interrupting him completely. Dean feels stunned out of knowing what to say in response. “You’re gonna have a birthday party! And I’ve invited only the _coolest_ people around. _The coolest,_ Dean, _the coolest._ Did you hear that? The freaking _coolest.”_

Dean groans.

“That’s really great, ‘Zeke, but—”

“And obviously they’ll be your friends as well, Dean, don’t worry—but _seriously,_ man, you underestimate how loved you are in this place— _so_ many people wanted to go, and I had to be all _no, only Dean’s best friends allowed!—_ by the way, I count myself in that number, so—”

“Ezekiel, I kind of wanted a quiet—”

“ _Bullshit,_ you did, Dean.” Ezekiel interrupts yet again, rolling his eyes. “ _Everyone_ wants a massive birthday get together. _Everyone.”_

“I’m not actually sure that’s true…” Dean frowns worriedly, but Ezekiel is already pulling him up by the arm and grinning widely.

“Listen, come round to me and Cas’ room at—I don’t know, shall we make it eight? It’ll be amazing, Dean, seriously—you’re gonna have so much fun. Do you wanna take anything? _Do_ anything? I was gonna make it a surprise party, but then I thought, ‘Hey, what the fuck, those _never_ go to plan, anyway’, so—”

Dean is looking heavenwards.

“That’s really kind of you, ‘Zeke,” He says, accepting defeat and trying not to sigh to resignedly as he speaks, “but I’ve _really_ gotta go and get to class, so—”

“Speak soon?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, brushing himself down. Ezekiel’s enthusiastic greetings have ended up getting him more than a little bruised over the past few weeks.

“You got any presents or cards, yet?”

“My family gave me some to open today, when I left after the holidays.” Dean starts up walking again.

“And you’ll have mine to add to that, pretty soon.” Ezekiel grins widely, looking even more childish than usual, which is a massive feat on his part.

“I’m sure.” Dean nods absently, making his way away from the angel.

“And everybody else’s.” Ezekiel adds, walking in the opposite direction to Dean.

“’Zeke?” Dean calls after him a little anxiously, a few moments later. Ezekiel turns round and beams at Dean in a sign to tell him to continue with whatever it is he wants to say. “Exactly _how many_ people are going, tonight?”

 _“It’s a surprise, Dean!”_ The angel calls back at him, grinning broadly. Dean groans inwardly. “Happy birthday!”

“Thanks.” Dean mutters, feeling more than a little anxious about what it is that he will be forced to deal with when evening falls.

He continues onto his class thinking about whether or not Castiel will be at his party. Is it unreasonable to want him to be there? Can Dean say that the two of them are even close enough for that? The pair haven’t spoken properly in over a month; which is _really_ saying something considering the fact that their ‘longer’ conversations lasted little more than a minute if Dean was lucky.

But hadn’t Cas called Dean his friend after the protest? Wouldn’t Castiel go to a _friend’s_ birthday party, whatever that may actually be?

Dean worries at his lip and attempts to push the angel out of his mind. He swore he would be getting over Castiel. And fuck it, he’s never going to stop trying to do so.

 

…

 

Castiel has spent the last two hours tacking balloons to walls and hanging brightly coloured _happy birthday_ banners up and down his block. Streamers are raining down from the ceiling and Ezekiel has bought more cups and made more jello shots than Castiel thinks _anyone_ should be able to consume. And now everyone is waiting; music that is composed almost entirely of base is throbbing slowly out of some speakers that Ezekiel borrowed off a friend, propped up along various spaces—in the corner of the tiny kitchen, at the end of the corridor, by the armchair in the lounge. Everyone along their corridor has opened up their rooms, too, and the place is more crowded than Castiel thinks he’s ever seen it.

If they actually get _caught_ doing any of this, they are totally and grandly fucked.

And now all they are doing is lying in wait for Dean, the music turned down relatively low; though still loud enough so that Castiel’s bones feels as though they are being shaken, however gently, by the bass. Everyone sips their drinks cautiously, pretty girls with long hair seem brimming with an excited kind of nervousness that has Castiel tensing jealously. The chances of Dean hooking up with someone toning are _so painfully high_ —and Castiel doesn’t think he can cope. Fuck, he can’t do it. He wants to leave now, just so he doesn’t have to watch it happen, but it’s too late at this point. He’s committed—and anyway, how much of an ass would he have to be to _miss_ Dean’s birthday party just out of the fear that the human will get with someone during the night—someone who _isn’t_ Castiel?

With a faltering, ugly drop of his stomach, Castiel spots Gadreel at the end of the corridor. He turns away quickly, envy burning at his face.

 _Fuck,_ tonight is going to be tough.

The people surrounding Castiel talk in murmurs, barely able to cover their anticipation. On Ezekiel’s bed lie a pile of all the presents that everyone got for Dean—some are just token gifts from acquaintances who rightly find Dean’s company soothing and enjoyable; others—such as Ezekiel’s—are the overstated, odd presents of close friends that are probably some form of inside joke. And with a disappointed tremble of his insides Castiel thinks of how he and Dean have none of these kinds of jokes.

And then, all of a sudden, the murmuring turns into a quiet buzz, constant and thrilling as the excitement in the room trebles with the needless yet equally exhilarating whisper of “ _he’s coming!”_ rings across the threshold. A delightful, consistent hum of excited conversation sweeps across the crowd, loud enough that Castiel thinks that he can catch whole words and phrases of the muffled sounds of those around him, yet quiet enough that were a pin to drop in the gathering, every member of the throng would fall silent.

And as the door opens, the hum explodes immediately into a vibrant roar of _“Happy Birthday!”_ ; Ezekiel jumps onto Dean and pulls him into to a loving, rough embrace that has everyone including Castiel bursting into the rounded, happy laughter of big crowds, yet has only Castiel’s gut tensing with a quiet, sad jealousy. This in turn, of course, has an unpleasant guilt that tastes of copper and is the colour green, curling along Castiel’s insides—because he has no right under the sun to be jealous of Ezekiel for being so close to Dean. Castiel has probably ruined any chance there would have been of the two of them being close; just by being his unfriendly, withdrawn, worried self. And now more than ever, he wishes he could be honest with Dean and say just how wonderful the human really is. And more than just wonderful for a human.

The music has pounded upwards in volume in the next second, the world bouncing along with every one of its beats, and Castiel takes the opportunity to tip back the last of his beer, now lukewarm in its bottle, before moving on to some heavier drinks. Dean spots him from across the corridor and gives him a quiet, polite, understated and horribly polite nod, accompanied by the ever-cautious raised eyebrows, which by intention have Castiel feeling sorry for the human and far less likely to feel offended by anything that Dean may say or do.

Castiel hates how careful Dean still is around him. It’s as though he is walking around glass with bare feet; each step is restrained and worried, each moment a foot touches the ground and no glass pierces the flesh is a moment of quiet, unadulterated relief. When Castiel returns the nod and offers Dean a brief smile along with it, the human’s frame seeps with this relief and the caution falls off his features as he looks away. Every cell in Castiel’s body sighs softly.

He takes a shot for every pretty girl he sees glancing wantingly in Dean’s direction. He takes a shot for every hot guy he sees winking at a blushing Dean from across the room. He picks up a beer off the floor and tosses it back when he sees Gadreel approaching the ever-blushing Dean, a warm, flirty smile etched lightly across his features. The world is beginning to turn groggy. Castiel thinks he needs some air.

“Castiel, buddy, are you doing okay?” A concerned, floaty voice asks somewhere near Castiel’s right ear.

“Yeah, m’fine…” Castiel mumbles, pushing the voice away from him. He tears his eyes off Gadreel, one hand pinned to the wall beside Dean, the other wrapped around a bottle of amber liquid as the pair seem immersed in deep conversation. Castiel feels heavy at the look on Dean’s face.

“You really don’t look it, you know.” The voice says, unconvinced. Castiel turns to face the voice and sees that the voice is in fact Ezekiel.

“Ezekiel,” Castiel mumbles. He tries to pull his friend in toward him for a hug.

“Buddy,” Ezekiel laughs, returning the hug although sounding a lot more sober. “I saw you inhaling quite a lot of shots back there, do you think it was maybe too much too soon?”

Ezekiel’s tone is that of concern, but his words turn bitter in Castiel’s ears. The lines defining the world around him grow a little more blurry and unsteady, and Castiel’s legs feel somehow disconnected to the rest of Castiel, odd and alien beneath him.

“Don’t be a prick…” Castiel mumbles, pushing Ezekiel away from him, and grunting unhappily.

“I’m not trying to be a prick, Cassie,” Ezekiel sighs, hand moving to Castiel’s back to support him a little better—but Castiel pushes him away again, his movements clumsy and mind blurred from coherent thought by a heavy, lazy fog.

“Well, you are.” Castiel replies bitterly, attempting to take a step forward. “ _You.”_ He takes a step, _“Are.”_ Another step, clumsy and uncertain as the last. Ezekiel walks with him.

“Take this,” His roommate sighs, rolling his eyes. “Fucking hell, Castiel, for the heavyweight you are, I’m seriously impressed you managed to get _this_ drunk.”

Castiel looks down at the object Ezekiel has shoved into his hands. It’s a water bottle—thoughtful and kind of Ezekiel to give to him, Castiel thinks, but he doesn’t know if he’ll even be able to open it in his current state.

Instead, he looks up at his roommate with big eyes, groggy from the drink and tired from the night. The music continues its rhythmic, low sounds in quick succession, Castiel feels it in every part of him; low and heavy, and he just wants to _sleep._

Ezekiel sighs and opens the bottle for him.

“There you go.” He says, handing it back to Castiel. Castiel takes a cautious sip.

“Thank you,” Castiel slurs, but Ezekiel shakes his head and pats his roommate’s shoulder gently.

“Don’t mention it, Cassie.” He shakes his head. “Think of all the times you looked after me when _I’ve_ been pissed.”

“I’m not pissed,” Castiel shakes his head, frowning, but Ezekiel laughs and begins to lead him down the crowded corridor, toward the door.

“Of course not,” Ezekiel agrees, stepping out onto the grass outside, arm wrapped around Castiel in support of him. “That was a silly suggestion of mine.”

“It was.” Castiel agrees, still frowning.

“I feel bad pointing this out, Castiel,” Ezekiel’s laughter bounces like rounded pebbles from his lips, “but you’ve got a _serious_ pout going on right now.”

Castiel huffs an indignant breath and takes another gulp of water.

“You think you’re gonna puke?” Ezekiel asks, raising his eyebrows at his roommate as his tone quickly shifts from playfully amused to suddenly concerned.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head again. “Because I’m _not_ drunk.”

“Right.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes, rocking back on his heels as he guides Castiel down onto the ground, back pressed against the wall. The rough surface grazes Castiel’s skin, but his drunkenness covers any pain he ought to feel. “I’m gonna go back inside, anyway. Call if you need anything—I hope you feel better, buddy.” Ezekiel claps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and rises from where he had previously been balanced on the balls of his toes as he guided Castiel onto the floor.

“You know,” Castiel starts, before Ezekiel has turned to walk away, “you—you did this.” Castiel states bitterly.

“Did what?” Ezekiel frowns, perplexed.

“It’s your fault I’m drunk.” Castiel answers, despondently. He can feel the saddened pout stretching across his lips again, but Ezekiel merely cocks and amused eyebrow in response.

“I thought you said you weren’t drunk.” He chuckles, but Castiel scowls in response, and his roommate raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, sorry,” He laughs lightly, shaking his head. “I didn’t mean anything by that. Just kidding.”

“You’re always kidding.” Castiel mumbles, looking at the ground. With a great deal of effort, he hugs his knees to his chest.

“That’s quite true, though not completely,” Ezekiel hums thoughtfully. “Now what do you mean it’s my fault that you’re drunk?”

“Just forget it…” Castiel groans mournfully.

“Not that easily, Cassie.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “Do you mean that it’s my fault because I organised this party? Because I don’t really think that’s _especially_ fair of you—”

“No, that’s not it—” Castiel groans, attempting to shift himself up a little along the wall. “I mean— _you—”_ He sighs again. He feels sad-drunk, the worst kind of drunk imaginable, and he wants to cry, and he’s afraid that if he continues, he _will_ cry. “—Don’t worry about it.” He shakes his head. “It’s pointless anyway. Just me being stupid.”

“Alright, Cassie.” Ezekiel squeezes his shoulder gently a moment. “You think you’ll be alright out here?”

“Yeah…” Castiel nods absently, looking out across the lawn. “It’s quieter. I think I need quiet.”

“That’s fair enough.” Ezekiel nods.

“You organised a great party, Ezekiel.” Castiel states, attempting to smile as much as possible as he looks up at his roommate.

“Thank you, Castiel.” Ezekiel beams genuinely as he stands.

“I bet Dean’s having a wonderful time.” Castiel says, his tone turning a little more bitter as he looks back out across the lawn again.

“You know what? I really think he is.” Ezekiel replies, totally unaware of the dull, drunk pain lobbing through Castiel with every one of his words. “I think—well,” he laughs warmly. “Without a doubt, he’s gonna pull tonight. It’s just a question of whether or not he’ll succumb to Gadreel’s advances, I think. What do you think the chances are?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs dejectedly. “High? Gadreel is nice and kind to him. Friendly. And attractive. And _kind…”_ Castiel says, kicking himself internally. Ezekiel only laughs in response.

“You’re so pissed right now,” He chuckles, shaking his head affectionately. “I’ll see you around.” He states, stepping back inside. Castiel raises his hand and waves once to the other angel. In the next instant Ezekiel is gone.

The time is punctuated only by Castiel staring up at the sky, timid stars peeping out from behind the clouds turned milky-white by the moon, wrapped in the navy velvet of the night. At one point a group of loud, giggling girls make their way outside, stumbling into the darkness. They offer Castiel a drink, and he takes it. They talk his ear off about the night and how they know Dean and how some of them think he’s _gorgeous_ but others see him as a just-a-friend or brother or only vaguely know him and don’t want to pass judgement; they quiz Castiel on what he would do if _he_ were a girl trying to get someone to like him; they hug him and one of them begins to vomit on the lawn, and Castiel tells them that they’re probably his best friends and they all shout in agreement and one of them starts crying and hugs him again.

Then they get up and say they’re going to go dancing, and would-Castiel-like-to-come-dancing-too? _No?_ Why-ever-not? Castiel-please-come-it’ll-be-so-fun-you-can’t-stay-out-here- _forever!_ And—

They pull sad pouty faces and promise to return outside when he says that they ought to leave him and go have fun, they tell him they love him and that they wish more guys were like him and Castiel laughs and replies with his most sober response to anything of the night; that they really _don’t_ wish more guys were like Castiel because if more guys were like Castiel then parties would be far emptier places and the world would stink of weed and incense. The girls giggle and hug him and leave him, and Castiel thinks absently that this is possibly the most positive interaction he has had with another living thing all week.

He thinks he passes out for a bit.

When he comes to, Dean is attempting to shift him up out of his position. The cold bright light of morning is glimmering across the campus and setting the buildings alight in a cool, timid fire.

“C’mon,” Dean mumbles, slipping his hands underneath Castiel’s arms and shifting him up. “Party’s over, Castiel, and you need to get into your _actual_ bed.”

Castiel groans and presses his palm to his forehead.

“Right…” He mumbles, attempting to move himself, but he looks back up at Dean to see hickeys sucked up and down the human’s neck, and suddenly, with a tearing motion of his heart, he pushes the human away from him and mutters that he can get up by himself.

Dean looks torn at Castiel’s words, his expression falters and he rocks back on his heels, murmuring a quiet sorry and looking down, but Castiel can hardly concentrate on that, nor make amends to it, because of the searing sense of sadness building itself up inside of him. He’s confused and upset and still very drunk, and he’s sure that Dean hooked up with Gadreel _again,_ and on Dean’s _birthday_ which has got to be special and mean something—and Castiel isn’t special and he doesn’t mean  _anything_ to the human.

“Where’s Ezekiel?” Castiel asks, voice raw. He winces and swallows twice, and Dean glances down at the ground Castiel has just got up from and picks something up, offering it to Castiel.

It’s the water from the night before, the bottle now half empty.

Castiel thanks the human quietly and takes several large gulps, finishing the thing entirely.

“You, uh—you got pretty fucked, huh?” Dean asks, still looking sad and withdrawn.

“I was fine.” Castiel replies bitterly. He opens the door to his block, and Dean follows after him.

“Right… Sorry…” He mumbles, faces flushing pink at the harshness of Castiel’s words.

Why is Dean apologising? Why is Dean _always_ apologising? Especially when it’s clearly Castiel’s fault? Especially when he’s done nothing wrong, anyway? Sadness and anger wrench through Castiel with enough force to break his body, yet it is the anger that wins the fight to reach his words first.

“Why are you _sorry,_ Dean?” He sighs harshly. “Why are you always _sorry?_ I swear, I haven’t had one _fucking_ interaction with you where you haven’t apologised. Why the hell _is_ that?! _”_

Dean looks hopeless as he takes a step away from Castiel. The sadness churns inside of Castiel’s belly.

“I don’t know…” Dean shrugs. He looks as though he’s about to cry. “I don’t know.” He repeats again, looking at the ground with a kind of heart-breaking meekness. “I just… sorry, I didn’t mean for it to annoy you.” He realises what he’s done, and berates himself for it, wincing. “—Sorry, I didn’t mean to apologise again—shit—sorry—I mean—”

Castiel wants to cry and kiss Dean and apologise for everything. But instead he just slumps down onto the floor of the corridor outside his room.

“Are you okay—” Comes Dean’s uncertain voice from above him, concerned and scared and sad, and Castiel can’t _believe_ this human, can’t believe how constant and kind and worried he is.

“I’m—” Castiel brushes Dean’s hands off him. He looks back up at the human, faltering slightly. “—It’s so weird that you _care,_ Dean.” He states, slightly dumbly. Dean presses his lips together.

“I know, I’m a _human,_ I shouldn’t—”

“No, it’s not that.” Castiel brushes off once again Dean’s comment. “It’s like, I could be the world’s biggest prick to you, and you’d still be the kindest person out there. Even to me.”

Dean looks as though he doesn’t know how to respond.

“—I—”

“And in fact, I _am_ the world’s biggest prick to you. And yet you still don’t stop talking to me.”

Dean’s eyes fill with tears again.

“Would you _like_ me to stop talking to you?” He asks, voice grazing against his throat. “—Because I can—I’m sorry if I’ve been annoying you—”

“No,” Castiel sighs, shaking his head again. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what do you want?” Dean asks, voice uncertain.

 _You,_ Castiel thinks. _You, in every way imaginable. You on my skin, you in my hair, you pressed to my lips. You happy. You smiling. Me laughing. You laughing at me. Everything as it is, but you and I together in every sense of the word._

He says none of this.

“Sleep.” He shrugs, laughing. Dean laughs nervously, too. “I’m sorry for being a prick.” Castiel shakes his head, rising. His heart hurts. “I’m just tired. Last night took a lot out of me. But I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay—” Dean stammers, shaking his head.

“But you had a good time?” Castiel asks uncertainly.

“A really good time.” Dean nods, lips twitching upwards. Castiel’s eyes graze down to Dean’s neck again. Something splinters inside of him.

“Gadreel?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at the marks.

Dean’s gaze flicks down to his chest.

“Uh—I think so.” He nods. “Or—” He stops short and apparently realises what he’s saying. Castiel sighs inwardly. More than one person got off with Dean, and Castiel wasn’t one of them.

And one of them _was_ Gadreel, and the chances are that him and Dean are going to—

Castiel looks away.

“Have you opened your presents yet?” He asks, glancing down the now littered and deserted corridor.

“No, not yet.” Dean shakes his head. His gaze falls upon a discarded cup on the floor. “I uh—I was kind of too busy—” He cuts himself off again, as though realising what he’s been saying once more, face flushing.

“Well, they’re all on Ezekiel’s bed—”

“No, they’re all on the floor now,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Sorry, by the way. ‘ _Zeke_ is on ‘Zeke’s bed, now.”

“Oh,” Castiel nods absently. “When did he call it a night?”

“Just before I came out to get you.” Dean replies. “He told me where he’d left you. This was when pretty much everyone had left.”

“So the party didn’t get shut down?”

“Nope,” Dean shakes his head. “Which is kind of astounding—”

“It really is.” Castiel sighs, though he doesn’t know what at. He opens the door to his room and sees Ezekiel essentially passed out on his bed. The big pile of presents lie in a mound, pushed as far out of inconvenience’s way as possible, on the floor. “Thank you, Dean,” Castiel nods, turning around to face the human. “I hope you had a very happy birthday. What are you going to do with the presents?”

“’Zeke told me to wait until tomorrow to open them.” Dean laughs. “—Tomorrow being today, actually. Just so he could watch my expression, apparently.”

“Fair enough,” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. “And are you okay for getting back?”

“I’ll be fine.” Dean shrugs. “It’s not even dark any more.”

“Right. See you around, then.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, looking away. “See you.”

Castiel watches as the human turns and exits down the corridor. Everything hurts as he slumps into his bed, not bothering to pull his sheets over his head. Everything hurts.

 

…

 

“Dean! Present time!” Ezekiel exclaims as soon as the door to his room is swung open. Dean sighs affectionately and steps inside.

“Alright, alright,” He shakes his head. “Did you sleep okay last night?—I guess I’d be better off saying ‘this morning’.” Dean laughs. “Did you get _any_ sleep?”

“I slept well, yeah.” Ezekiel shrugs, sitting himself down on the floor behind where he has shifted the small mountain of presents and cards. He gestures to Dean to sit opposite him, on the other side. “I can’t complain. What about you?”

“Yeah, I got a good four hours. It was alright, actually, considering.” Dean shrugs as he sits. Ezekiel hands him his first card. “I’m guessing this one is from you?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at Ezekiel. The angel laughs warmly and nods his head.

“You guessed right.” Ezekiel replies, grinning broadly.

“It looks a little small.” Dean winks, but Ezekiel rolls his eyes and swats at Dean.

“Don’t speak so soon.”

Dean opens the card to find a simple _Look in the closet, dummy,_ written on the inside. He looks up and frowns at Ezekiel.

“Well,” The angel giggles. “Go on.”

Dean sighs and stands, opening the cupboard door.

“Holy _shit—”_

Ezekiel bursts out laughing.

“’ _Zeke—”_

“ _Dean.”_ The angel replies, amusement still tumbling from his lips.

“Ezekiel—” Dean stammers, turning back to his friend. “I can’t accept this—”

“That’s a pity,” the angel sighs, shaking his head. “’Cause it’d be a huge fucking waste of money—”

“ _’Zeke—”_

“What?”

“You can’t give me a _guitar—”_

“Well, I am.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because this model costs over six hundred dollars!”

“If you already knew how much it cost, why did you ask?”

“Because I wanted to hear you say it.”

“I’m not one to judge, but that’s a weird kind of kink, Dean—” Ezekiel jokes, but Dean interrupts him before he can continue.

“Ezekiel this is too much, I can’t—”

“The football team chipped in, as well.”

“How much?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you _can’t_ just—”

“But Dean, I _can_.” Ezekiel shrugs. “You’re my best friend.”

Dean presses his lips together.

“Don’t get sentimental.” Ezekiel grins.

“I wasn’t going to.” Dean frowns defensively.

“Oh yes you were.”

“I was _actually_ going to say that I thought that _Cas_ was your best friend.”

“A person can have more than one, can’t they?” The angel frowns back at Dean. “And speaking of Cassie—have you seen him? ‘Cause he’s been in a shitty mood all day, and—”

“Stop trying to change the subject.” Dean scowls. “And no I haven’t.” He adds. “And why’s he in a shitty mood?”

Ezekiel smirks.

“You care?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Dean sighs.

“Why are _you_ in a bad mood?”

“You know why.” Dean grumbles.

“Because I gave you a guitar?”

“Where did you even get the _money—”_

“I told you.” Ezekiel sighs. “A. The football team. B. Coach decided to chip in.”

“ _Coach?!”_ Dean interrupts, but Ezekiel ignores him.

“C. Myself. D. My parents.”

“Your _parents_ agreed to pay for it?!” Dean runs a desperate, worried hand through his hair.

“Oh, don’t look so guilty, Dean. They’ve got plenty of money—and anyway, any time that I interact with them, they’re grateful enough to give me any amount of money right then and there.”

“Maybe that’s a sign you should speak to them more.” Dean grumbles.

“And maybe I’ll grow a goatee like my dad and live in the suburbs and get shares in companies and tell my child that there’s no future in fun.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “Anyway, Dean, you’re missing the point—you _deserve_ this.”

“How?”

“You’re a good guy, and—”

“How did you even know I _wanted_ this guitar?” Dean groans, looking at the tempting, jet black body of the guitar, lined with silver, the long, slender neck—

“I saw you admiring it in some magazine.” Ezekiel shrugs. “It was either that one or the one with the _dragon_ on it—”

“The dragon one is thirty _thousand_ dollars. A fucking artist bought it, I think—”

“The price did seem slightly questionable, yeah.” Ezekiel pretends to agree thoughtfully, but glances up at Dean and winks at him. “Imagine hoe guilty you’d be if I’d got you _that_ one.”

Dean laughs despite himself.

“You really didn’t need to do this, ‘Zeke—”

“But I did.” The angel shrugs. “Now get it out of that stupid closet and give it a play—that’s what guitars are for, so I hear.”

“’Zeke, you know how fucking awesome you are, right?”

“I’ve heard a couple of times, yeah.” The angel grins modestly up at Dean. “But it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again.”

Dean laughs and picks the guitar up gently, running his hands over the frame.

“Holy _shit—”_

“I know—all your other presents are gonna have a _really_ tough time living up to this one.” Ezekiel grins widely. Dean reaches over to the angel to ruffle his hair.

Ezekiel is of course right with this statement, and however nice games, sports gear and food might be, they’re not the same as a fucking _guitar._ Some friends have got Dean small, joke-presents—Ezekiel included—and others have apparently heard about the guitar and consequently got Dean all kinds of stuff to go with it. The pile of wrapping paper and newspaper from the lazier students grows bigger and bigger, as does the pile of opened gifts, and by the time Dean has reached the bottom, he is almost completely worn out.

“Last few.” Ezekiel grins widely. “Hey—” He frowns at the tag of the final present, which is actually a collection of several parcels all tired together, “this is Cassie’s handwriting.”

“Cas got me a present?” Dean asks, nonplussed.

“Apparently.” Ezekiel shrugs. He glances up at Dean and grins to see his utterly confused expression. “Hey, I’m just as lost as you are. Maybe Castiel _doesn’t_ hate you.”

“Not if my interaction with him last night is anything to go by.” Dean shakes his head.

“What happened last night?”

“He was—” Dean cuts himself off, not wanting to think about it. “—I don’t know. Even worse than he was when we first met.”

“He was in a pretty bad mood,” Ezekiel frowns thoughtfully. “Even when I was being nice and totally-not-annoying to him.”

“Well, he was really fucking rude.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Ezekiel looks frustrated. “I’ll tell him off when I next see him—”

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly, stopping Ezekiel’s sentence in its tracks. “Please don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“He was probably just in a bad mood, like you said.” Dean replies, perhaps a little too quickly.

“No, that’s no excuse.” Ezekiel shakes his head. His frown is pensive and upset. “I’ve _told_ him to be nice to you—”

“Wait, you’ve _told_ him to be nice to me?” Dean asks, the one to frown this time. His heart sinks into his stomach. Ezekiel’s face falls.

“Well—”

“You _told_ him to be nice to me?!” Dean asks again. Ezekiel’s expression turns guilty.

“When you say it like that—”

“’Zeke, you _told_ him to be fucking _nice_ to me?!” Dean nearly shouts. “All this time I thought that maybe—when he wasn’t being a prick to me—that _maybe—_ but you _told_ him?! You told him to be—”

“Told who to be what?”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin.

His face, which was red with mortification, now turns its familiar nervous pink.

“Castiel,” Ezekiel greets, and he sounds almost _relieved_. Dean could kick him.

“Told who?” Castiel asks again. “And to be what? What are you guys talking about?”

Dean glares at Ezekiel a moment before standing.

“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m going.” He gets up to leave.

He has to stop his lip from curling with bitterness.

“Dean, you haven’t even opened the _present—”_ Ezekiel attempts, but Dean grinds his teeth together and ignores the angel, making his way to the door.

“That’s _my_ present to you.” Castiel says. Dean stops. His face reddens. He glances at Castiel, who looks strangely almost _childish_ as he looks dolefully at Dean. “You don’t want it?” He asks, raising his eyebrows with an upset expression at Dean. “But you haven’t even _unwrapped_ it—”

Dean is as torn as the wrapping paper on the floor.

“I’m—” He stammers. “I’ll take it back with me.” He reaches down and picks the gift up. “I’ll pick everything else up in a bit.” Castiel still looks deeply upset. But why? What reason does the angel have. “’Zeke—thank you for your present—it was actually pretty awesome—I’m sorry for…” He trails off. “…Everything.”

Ezekiel shrugs and offers Dean a warm smile.

“And thanks for the party.” Dean adds. “I had a great time.”

“I’m glad.” Ezekiel smiles. “I’ll help you carry your stiff over to yours in a bit, if you like?”

“Thanks.” Dean nods, and with that, he exits. His heart feels heavy as he makes his way back to his own building, to his own room. The limited friendship he _thought_ he had with Castiel is even _more_ limited, and probably none existent, in fact. However nice he was to Dean, it was only because he was _told_ to be nice—and Dean let himself get his hopes up and let himself _feel_ and think things that obviously weren’t every going to come to any fruition, and _fuck,_ Dean is an idiot. He slams the door to his room shut when he reaches it and slumps down onto the floor.

Maybe Cas was so rude to him last night because he just _forgot_ that he was supposed to be nice to Dean; maybe Cas was so rude because he saw Dean kissing _multiple_ people and realised what a fucking _slut_ Dean is; maybe—

Silent, heavy tears streaming down his face, Dean glances down at the present in his lap.

He can barely make out what the tag on it says, and has to blink several times before it swims into vision.

_To Dean._

_Happy birthday._

He almost laughs, bitterness and anger all aimed at himself rising up through his system like a thunderstorm—of _course_ this is all the note says, how fucking _stupid_ of Dean to think that it could ever say anything else. He lets it fall back onto the gift and starts crying again, but as it lands, the other side of the note is revealed.

 _For proving to me that humans aren’t_ all _bad._

And Dean almost laughs again, and this time it is something close to hope flaring timidly inside of him—useless, needless hope.

It is enough  to have him peeling back the wrapping of the first part of the gift.

A copy of _The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath_ falls to the floor. Dean stares down at it as though he is expecting it to fly away, and then reaches out to pick it up.

He opens the front cover without thinking.

He is immediately glad he has done so.

_For Dean—in the hope that your Bell Jar will be lifted, once more._

_I look forward to you telling me which of these is your favourite, and I hope they provide you with both a little hope, and a little peace._

_I realise now that I also ought to say that I do hope you enjoy these, too._

Dean wipes the tears clumsily from his face and thumbs through the poems, every now and then pausing at one—Castiel has written little notes over each of them, and Dean starts crying again, but this time a different kind of tears.

_This one has a racial slur in it…_

Comes the slightly bitter writing of Castiel over several of the poems,

_This one reminds me of my sister and my mother,_

Over another. Dean sniffs and skims the poems.

_This one makes me think of protest,_

Over another.

Why would Cas do any of this?

Especially if Dean is not a friend?

Dean glances at the other presents almost afraid that they are going to be filled with mockery, scathing comments of how Castiel was only taking the piss, how he doesn’t _actually_ care for Dean—with a shaking hand Dean picks up the next gift and cautiously unwraps it. Several books emerge now, a few Hemingway— _In case you haven’t read them yet—_ and two others, both collections of poems by the same poet.

_This is Pablo Neruda,_

Castiel introduces.

_I hope you like him. You may not. I enjoy him. You may not._

None of these poems have any annotations.

Dean opens the final gift and sees a collection of CDs.

Taped to one are the words:

_Ramshackle Glory, Live the Dream._

_Some of my ‘folk punk’. You’ll probably hate it, but at least give it a listen._

_If nothing else, it’ll give you something to laugh at me for.  
The other one of theirs, which I have also given to you, is called Shelter._

_And don’t worry, all the other CDs are your weird metal/rock mullet shit. Enjoy._

_And happy birthday, once again._

Dean stares down at the pile of gifts.

He doesn’t know what to think.

So he picks up the CD with the band name he doesn’t recognise and Castiel’s note taped to it and one of the books by Pablo Neruda and sticks the CD on. He sits on his bed and presses his bed against the pillow and thinks about Castiel, feeling more confused about the angel than ever before.

 

…

 

“Party, tonight.” Ezekiel grins, sitting down on the floor in front of where Castiel is lying, reading on his bed. “ _Biiiig_ party.” He adds, dragging out his vowels as though Castiel is a very young child.

“I’ve heard.” Castiel deadpans, not looking up at his roommate. He continues to read, focussing his mind on his work rather than on Ezekiel.

“You comin’?” Ezekiel asks, shuffling himself on his knees a little closer to Castiel’s bed. The movement oddly reminds Castiel of a crab shuffling itself along some sand.

“I don’t think so.” Castiel shakes his head, pressing his lips together. Ezekiel groans loudly from above his head.

“Oh, come _on,_ Cassie,” He sighs, rolling his eyes halfway before glaring up at the ceiling as though asking the heavens for support. “You haven’t been out to _any_ parties since _Dean’s—_ and that was—what, two months ago?”

“I haven’t been counting.” Castiel shrugs tersely, tone painfully controlled and even. He’s hardly spoken to Dean since the day after his birthday, if at all—and he _misses_ the human and his contact—but then he can’t be with Dean, can’t stand to be with him; because of all the odd, heavy feelings he has for the human, because of how rude he was to Dean on his _birthday,_ because if he speaks to him, Castiel’s present to Dean will almost certainly be brought up.

And the present was… intimate, to say the least.

Who the fuck _annotates_ poems in a poetry book before giving it as a gift? Who the fuck leaves weird, personal little notes at the top of each page, who would ever think that acceptable or normal or not at all creepy?!

“Well, I have.” Ezekiel replies matter-of-factly, dragging Castiel from his thoughts. “And it’s ridiculous. Why have you been so fucking antisocial?”

“First of all, Ezekiel,” Castiel nearly growls, finally looking up at his roommate, “it’s not _antisocial_ to want to stay in, some nights. Secondly, most of the people who go to those parties are shallow and vain and—”

“Oh my god, you’re so pretentious.” Ezekiel groans, looking upwards and rubbing his face with his hands with exasperation.

“That’s my _opinion—”_

“You’re being bitchy.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “People are actually good in general, you know. Everyone has good things going for them. Even you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“And why have you been so cold to Dean lately? For fucks sake, Cassie, you’re so back and forth with him. One moment you’re telling me he’s a human and therefore completely out-of-bounds; the next you say he’s vulnerable and that we should look out for him; the next that he’s inevitably racist and probably a prick; another you’ll be saying he’s actually a really close friend of yours, and then—”

“Those things aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, you know.” Castiel bites, snapping his book shut.

“Uh—I’m pretty sure they are, Castiel.” Ezekiel replies in an infuriatingly dull voice.

“You’re fucking insufferable.”

“And _you’re_ a fucking prick.”

“You’re pissed off with me because I’m not going to a _party.”_

“I’m pissed off with you because you’re a judgemental asshole, and you’re saying judgemental things about nice people.” Ezekiel counters. “And you’re being a frosty, bitter _prick_ to one of my best friends.”

“Fine.” Castiel dumps his book on the floor and stands up, pushing his roommate out of his way. “I’ll go to the stupid party. But only to prove you wrong.”

And he stomps out of the room.

Only when he is out on the corridor does he realise that this entire argument was, mostly likely, Ezekiel’s way of getting Castiel to attend the event. He kicks the wall and curses under his breath. Fucking Ezekiel.

Bitter admiration for the other angel coils inside of Castiel’s chest, despite himself.

 

…

 

Dean is dragged along to the party by Ezekiel and Benny. His aim is to get as pissed as possible in as short a space of time as possible, because actually, parties are getting to be pretty painful events for him. All they ever seem to end up doing is make him sad.

“The bass is too loud.” Benny wrinkles his nose at the pounding of the music as the trio amble past a step of speakers. “Dean—I’ve got to give it to you for not having _too_ shitty music at your birthday party. I would’ve left so much earlier if it’d been anything like this.”

“It’s alright to dance to,” Ezekiel shrugs carelessly. “And anyway, Dean didn’t plan out any of his party—so don’t hand it to him, hand it to _me.”_

“Duly noted,” Benny chuckles, soft and low. “And that shouldn’t be a surprise to me, anyway—if Dean had chosen the music?”

“He would’ve picked all Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and alienated ninety nine per cent of the other party-goers.” Ezekiel grins.

Dean chooses to ignore his friends’ teasing.

“Hey, I persuaded Cassie to come, tonight.” Ezekiel says suddenly. “Or at least, I think I did.”

“You _think_ you did?”

“You can never be too sure of _anything_ with Castiel.” Ezekiel shrugs in explanation.

“How did you persuade him?”

“Well, I sort of forced him into an argument, and knew that the stubborn and difficult person he is, he’d end up shouting at me that he would be going just to prove me wrong.”

“Prove you wrong?”

“I called him antisocial.”

“Oh.” Dean laughs despite himself. “He can’t have taken that very well.”

“Uh, no, not really. I mean, he fucking exploded, so…”

“I’m amazed you made it out alive.”

“Trust me, so am I.”

“You play a dangerous game, ‘Zeke.”

“It’s been said.” The angel grins. His face suddenly lights up childishly. “Hey—do you guys wanna play drinking games?”

“Um—” Dean starts uncertainly.

“Oh c’mon, Dean—it’ll be _fun.”_

These are the words that Dean will probably have engraved on his tombstone.

Two hours later and he is totally, grandly fucked; he can barely walk and is staggering about the place, slurring his speech. Everything is funny, at least, and Ezekiel and Benny are now playing _The-floor-is-lava_ on someone’s bedroom floor; Dean sat on the middle of it giggling uncontrollably.

“I think I’m gonna sleep, now.” Ezekiel mumbles, sitting down suddenly on the bed. “You guys don’t have to if you don’t want to, though.”

Dean bursts out laughing again.

“We’ll leave you in peace.” He replies, ruffling Ezekiel’s hair. The angel mumbles something incoherent.

Benny tells Dean that he’s going to go look for some of his classmates, and Dean replies that he wants some air. The two decide to part ways, Dean heading outside while Benny returns to the loudness of the party.

Staggering out of the door, onto the grass outside, Dean stares up at the sky.

“ _Wow.”_ He says drunkenly to himself, admiring the trembling dark hues of the great, navy mass; timid stars flickering intermittently in dapples across its great area.

“Quite a beautiful night, isn’t it.” A voice comes to Dean’s left, and despite his drunken state, Dean nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound. “Sorry,” The voice laughs, warm and familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Dean turns to see Castiel sat on the grass, head tilted up toward the sky, too.

Dean doesn’t know if he should feel overjoyed or terrified.

“Sorry—I’ll leave you in peace, if you like—” He stammers out, taking a step back. Castiel’s eyes remain trained on the sky above their heads.

“Well, you could do that.” The angel frowns thoughtfully. He sounds rather drunk, too. “But why would you? I never said I wanted to be left alone. I never told you I wanted you to leave.”

“Right…” Dean mumbles. He takes a step toward Castiel.

“What an odd thought, that most of these stars are all dying, or already dead.” Castiel mumbles, a strangely contented smile pulling at his features. “And yet we can still look up at them and admire their beauty.”

“Yeah…” Dean frowns. He takes another few timid steps forward. “It is quite odd.”

Castiel laughs.

“I’m sorry for being so rude to you at your party, Dean.” He says. Dean’s face heats.

“You don’t need to—I mean, you’ve already apologised for that—”

“Yes, but I felt I ought to apologise again.”

“Okay…” Dean mumbles, confused. There is a long pause. “You know,” He starts up again. “I really haven’t seen you at all, lately.”

“Yes…” Castiel frowns suddenly. “It’s rather sad, actually.”

“Sad?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the angel.

“But we can make up for lost time, now?” Castiel turns to Dean again, ignoring his question.

Dean stumbles drunkenly toward Castiel.

“Now?”

“Would you like to?”

“I came out here to get some air…”

“I see.” Castiel replies. He seems slightly lost by Dean’s response—and to be fair, so is Dean. Why did he say that? Why can’t he just be _normal?_

“I mean—” He attempts to correct,

“—Parties can be very loud and intimidating.” Castiel states, thankfully cutting Dean short. “I have a feeling that Ezekiel tricked me into going to this one.”

“I think he did as well.” Dean admits. Castiel’s lips play upwards.

“He’s a force to be reckoned with.”

“He sure is.”

“If only he used his powers for good.” The angel sighs wistfully.

Dean bursts out laughing.

It sounds horribly inelegant, but Castiel looks delighted that his comment has had such an effect.

“I’m quite proud of myself for that,” He admits, grinning sheepishly. “I’m not normally very funny.”

“I’m sure you are.” Dean frowns, but Castiel simply brushes Dean off light-heartedly.

“According to Ezekiel, my ‘social skills’ are a little ‘rusty’.” Castiel puts this in mock quotation marks, and laughter bubbles from Dean’s lips again.

“I think you’re doing just fine.” He replies. Castiel smiles warmly at him.

“Thank you.”

“Although you laugh and smile a lot more when you’re drunk.” Dean says, without thinking.

“Well, that all depends what mood I’m in.” Castel shrugs. “Sometimes I’m grumpy—you’ve seen me in that state rather a lot, and I’m very sorry about that—”

“Oh, don’t worry—”

“And sometimes I’m fine.” Castiel shrugs. “Nice, even.”

“And you’re not nice normally?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the angel.

“Believe it or not, Dean,” Castiel smirks, “but Ezekiel has told me once or twice that I can apparently be a bit of an ass.”

Dean can’t stop laughing.

“Only sometimes.” He replies. Castiel looks up at him and smiles with something that has Dean snapping his gaze away out of shyness.

“Would you like to sit down, Dean?” Castiel asks. Dean’s mind whirls to a halt.

“Um—” He stammers.

“Well, I can’t imagine that it’s very comfortable to spend all your time standing, when drunk.” Castiel explains. Dean giggles again. He sounds so fucking childish and stupid and besotted, but he can’t stop, and Castiel is being _hilarious,_ and he sits down next to the angel, beaming widely, thinking that maybe Castiel _must_ like him—maybe Castiel _really_ likes him—maybe—

“Did you like my present to you?” Castiel asks, interrupting Dean’s thoughts. Dean grins.

“Yeah—I—I really loved it, actually, thank you very much—”

“You’ve listened to the CDs?”

“Yeah, I have—I really liked your ones—I mean, the ones that were, y’know, your kind of music—”

“Did you really?” Castiel smirks, unconvinced. “Or are you just saying that to be polite, I wonder?”

“No, definitely not.” Dean shakes his head quickly. “I wouldn’t—”

“You are a very polite person, Dean.” Castiel points out.

“I’m actually not,” Dean denies quickly. The angel continues smirking. “But genuinely—I liked the music, it was great—”

“What was your favourite song of theirs?”

“I don’t really know,” Dean admits. Castiel snorts a little triumphantly. “No, Castiel, I _have_ listened to them—”

“You don’t need to sound so defensive.”

“Last Song, part two.” Dean decides. Castiel glances up at him, looking pleasantly surprised. “And—that sad one—the one about compost—”

Castiel laughs warmly.

“Yes, that one’s very good. And what about from the CD with Ghost Mice?”

“Um—House of the Undying. And the one about punk—”

“You actually _listened.”_ Castiel beams, chuckling warmly. “I can’t believe it!”

“Why not?”

“It was a test.” Castiel giggles. “And you passed. Well done.”

“A test?”

“Yes.” Castiel confirms, apparently not feeling the need to elaborate.

“A test of what?”

“I was testing to see if you’d actually stoop so low to listen to music other than your beloved—”

“Oh, god, Castiel—stop roasting me for that—”

“Sorry,” Castiel titters. “Anyway—you liked the gifts?”

“I did.” Dean confirms. “Thank you very much.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Castiel replies genuinely.

“You know,” Dean starts, unsure of why it is he is choosing to share this, “when I first opened it, I thought it was a joke.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel frowns.

“I thought you were playing some kind of joke on me.” Dean shrugs.

“That would be a horrible joke,” Castiel frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“I don’t know,” Dean replies honestly. “I’m just a very paranoid person, I guess.”

“Well, it wasn’t a joke.” Castiel shakes his head. “What a cruel idea. Although it was quite pretentious.”

“Only a little,” Dean laughs softly. Castiel glances over to him and amusement sparks in the angel’s eyes.

“The introductions that I gave to the poems, though—wow, even _I_ have to admit that that’s pretentious.”

“I don’t know…” Dean laughs nervously.

“I also felt that I _had_ to include the warnings about racism, et cetera, in each of them.” Castiel shakes his head as though thoroughly amused at himself. “As though—I don’t know; I feel we all have the right to enjoy media and art forms despite their problematic elements—as long as we recognise that they are in some way racist or sexist, et cetera, and don’t excuse them for that. Does that make sense?”

“Um—”

Cas is talking about social justice.

Of course he doesn’t like Dean.

“Maybe I’m just rambling.” Castiel laughs wistfully. “But I guess I always have to call _anyone_ out on it. I feel like it’s my duty, you know. Someone does something offensive, I have to tell them it’s offensive. And they don’t like it, and I know that they think it’s annoying—but the thing is, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Right…” Dean nods. His mood settles, bleak and unhappy in the pit of his stomach, like the grey sky that hangs heavy with bloated clouds just before rain.

“Often, I treat it like my duty to do so. It shouldn’t really be my duty.”

“People should start calling themselves out before being racist.” Dean states, tone flat as he recites the fact he once memorised to impress the angel sat next to him. Now he just feels stupid and selfish that he would ever use a cause in an attempt to get someone to like him back; even more so that he thought that this would work with _Castiel_. Castiel glances over to him, slightly incredulous. “Or bigoted in general.” Dean turns his head up to the stars. He can hear the dull thumping of the music inside. “Self-criticism, that’s what it is.”

“Yes,” Castiel nods, squinting at Dean. “You know, Dean, you’re very observant.”

“That’s kind of you to say.” Dean sighs, still looking up. “But I don’t think it’s true.”

“You don’t?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human.

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “I’d never notice any of this stuff for myself, let alone work it out. I’m not like Sammy or my mom, I can’t look at the world and figure out what’s wrong with it, I don’t have that gift and I’m not aware enough to nurture it, I’m too self-obsessed to look outside of myself anyway; and despite all that, I can’t even look at _me_ and figure what’s wrong with me.” He sighs. He thinks he’s poured out more of his heart to Castiel in this long outpour of a sentence than he ever has to the angel before.

“I don’t really know what to say in response to that, Dean.” Castiel admits after a teeth-grindingly painful pause.

“Figures.” Is all that Dean can think of to reply with.

“But nobody really knows what they’re doing.” The angel states, looking at Dean with distant eyes. “Nobody knows, and if they do know, then it’s because they’re terrified of anything else. So when you feel afraid that you don’t understand yourself or know what you want, all you need to do is keep on going and try your hardest in everything you do—because you can’t get away from doing what’s in your heart.”

“You’re really fucked right now.” Dean finds himself laughing.

“Yes, I am.” Castiel concedes, chuckling lightly and looking out across the lawn.

“But thank you,” Dean smiles slightly. “I _think_ what you just said was an attempt to make me feel better, so thank you.”

“Of course it was!” Castiel exclaims, his voice entwining with both amusement and offence. “Did it work at all?”

“A little,” Dean humours the angel. Castiel glances at Dean, still looking entertained, but unconvinced.

“All we can try to do is strive for the happiness of ourselves and everyone around us.”

“We can try to do a lot more than that,” Dean frowns.

“Alright,” Castiel concedes, “the first thing we ought to do, when we’re stuck—like you are now—in not knowing ourselves and not knowing what to do; is strive to spread happiness and grow it in ourselves.”

“You think happiness is something you grow? And not achieve?”

“I don’t like the word achieve,” Castiel ponders for a moment. “It implies a little too much that happiness ought to be our only goal.”

“What you just said would seem to back that up.” Dean points out.

“That’s true…” Castiel admits thoughtfully. “Although justice also ought to be our go. Justice, love peace, truth, beauty, happiness.”

“So you think it’s something we grow?”

“Something we nurture. What about you?”

“I don’t know.” Dean shrugs. “Maybe it depends on the kind of happiness.”

“That’s quite perceptive.” Castiel nods. “Would you expand?”

“So, say peace, like you said. If you’re at peace with yourself, that’s a form of happiness, right?”

“Yes, I suppose.” Castiel agrees. “Contentment.”

“Yeah, contentment. So that—I don’t know, I’d say that’s something that you achieve.”

“Really?”

“Yeah—what do you think it is?”

“I think it’s something you practice.”

Dean falls quiet for a moment.

“Do you agree?” Castiel asks, breaking the silence with amusement curling the edges of his voice.

“If contentment is something you practice, then I think that all kinds of happiness are something that you practice.” Dean says slowly. “You can’t—I don’t know, relying on finding happiness seems foolish. And outright pursuing it—that feels like a great way to _not_ be happy. But then, so does everything we ever do. Sometimes the universe feels so sad, you know? And it feels like we only push happiness on ourselves—we only practice it—because we’re afraid that the sadness will kill us.”

Castiel looks at Dean through glazed, thoughtful eyes.

“What?” Dean asks.

“You know,” Castiel starts. “I think you’re far more intelligent than either you or anyone else gives you credit for.”

Dean’s face heats immediately.

“Definitely not—” He shakes his head quickly, but Castiel interrupts him.

“Definitely.” He states with absolute certainty. His words stand before Dean, a fifty-foot wall, jeering at Dean to attempt to defy them. “You’re sad though—and I can tell, and it makes me sad.”

“Everyone’s sad—”

“Your sadness is gnawing, grey and constant.” Castiel shakes his head. “It seeps and pervades everything. You do everything, even when you’re happy, with the grey shadow hanging over you, polluting the yellow of pleasure; a big sad dog follows you around wherever you go, wherever life leads you—it sits at the foot of your bed—”

“Castiel, I’m not comfortable with this conversation—”

“How are you and Gadreel?” Castiel asks, interrupting Dean. “Are you getting back together?”

Dean thinks he’s about to cry.

“You’re being a bit of an asshole, right now.” He states, shakily. “And I’m not enjoying this conversation. And I think I’m going to go inside.”

“Oh,” Castiel frowns, looking suddenly solemn and mournful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” He cuts himself off. “I’m not very good with people.” He admits. “I can’t talk feelings. I was trying to talk feelings just now, and it didn’t work. I’m sorry for offending you.”

“That’s fine.” Dean attempts to brush off. Castiel shakes his head.

“It’s not. I’ve been rude and unkind. I just was trying to say that I don’t like the idea of you being so unhappy.”

“Castiel, you hardly _know_ me.” Dean points out, his voice cracking. “We barely ever talk. Less than ever, lately, which is really fucking saying something. I don’t think I’ve actually _spoken_ to you since my birthday—and that interaction left me feeling _so shitty_ about myself, you have no idea. You can’t act like you know shit about me when you don’t; I never tell you how I feel, I never share my thoughts or feelings with you, I’ve never felt that I _could.”_

Castiel looks down, face quietly ashamed.

“I’m not a very good person, Dean.” He admits, staring at the grass. “I’ve already said that I’m sorry, but I really am—I’m just afraid—”

“And of course you’re allowed to be.” Dean sighs.

“The first human friend I had—well—I tried to befriend them, I mean—and their father came and shouted at me and threatened me and told me I wasn’t allowed to speak to his child ever again. And I was… I don’t know, maybe four years old? I don’t mean this as an excuse, I’m just—”

“—Trying to put everything into context?”

“I suppose.” Castiel nods. “But if you wanted to talk to me about your thoughts and fears and dreams or anything at all, I’d be more than happy to listen.”

Dean starts ripping the grass up from the ground in front of him.

“I’ve made you nervous again.” Castiel sighs.

“It’s alright,” Dean shrugs. “I don’t really feel comfortable talking about that stuff with _anyone,_ so it’s really not just you.”

“A noble attempt to make me feel better,” Castiel laughs almost wistfully, shaking his head. He brushes his hand against Dean with a motion that has the human nearly jumping out of his skin in shock, before tangling the pair’s fingers softly.

What?

What the fuck is going on?

Does Cas know what he’s doing? Is he really _that_ drunk?

“You’re uncommonly kind, Dean Winchester.” Castiel mumbles, squeezing Dean’s hand.

Dean feels lightheaded and can’t respond.

“I think,” The angel starts thoughtfully, “that if everyone in the universe were as kind as you are, it’d be a far more wonderful place.”

“I think it’s quite a wonderful place anyway, right now.” Dean croaks, hardly believing what’s happening. Why’s he getting so excited over Castiel holding his hand? Does this even mean anything? Is it just the angel’s last attempt at comforting Dean? “To be honest.” Dean adds, superfluously, he really doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s saying, but the angel squeezes his hand again and lets out a low, soft breath of amusement.

“We are very blessed to live in a world of such immeasurable beauty.”

Dean bursts out laughing.

“Was that really pretentious, too?” Castiel glances at him, grinning with amusement. Dean still cannot get over the feeling of Castiel’s hand against his. Is this the first time the two of them have touched? Holy shit—it actually might be. Holy shit. Holy shit! Castiel is holding is hand! What the fuck?!

“No—” Dean shakes his head, finding it difficult to form his words. Castiel pulls an unconvinced face. “Really, no,” Dean laughs again. He can’t help it, now, and it sounds almost hysterical. “No, I was beautiful—but also the kind of thing you’d only say if you were really, really fucked.”

“I am a little.” Castiel admits, lips twitching upwards.

“You know, Castiel, I think this might just be the longest conversation the two of us have every had.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Dean confirms.

“Wow.” Castiel says, looking at the stars. “I’ve enjoyed it.”

“That’s very charitable of you to say.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really.”

“I’d like to do it again.”

“I’m not sure that I can believe that.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand again and looks at him so intently that Dean’s world crumbles. It looks like the angel is about to say something when someone shouts Dean’s name from inside.

“Where _are_ you?!” Comes the voice, frustrated and slurred by alcohol.

“I’m—” Dean tears his eyes off Castiel. “—Coming!” He shouts back. “Sorry! I was just getting some fresh air!”

And he stands quickly, pulling himself away from Castiel without realising it. He staggers back inside.

Castiel is left alone.


	9. This Magic Moment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuckin' finally.

 

Staring out into the black night of the campus, Castiel feels alone and disregarded. He is left once again with the feeling that Dean’s affections for him grow smaller and smaller every day. Left once again with the feeling that Dean will always infinitely prefer Ezekiel to Castiel; that there will never be any competition over it, that the angel will soon mean nothing to the boy, just an old crush who was only ever rude and unkind to the human who deserved the world.

He is left once again worried that by the time Castiel finds himself able to be honest with the human of how he feels, Castiel will mean nothing to Dean, Dean will be over him and moving on to bigger and better things.

Castiel keeps fucking up in regards to Dean; he wants to be kind to the human and everything he needs, but part of Castiel _has_ to be an asshole just to stop himself from loathing every fibre of his own being—but being so unkind to the human is now doing the exact same thing. He hates himself, either way.

He’s stuck in a huge fucking rut.

And he had been _so close_ to telling Dean how he felt, just moments ago. So fucking close. Why did Ezekiel have to interrupt? Why can’t Castiel just be a better person in general? More honest? More approachable?

Fuck it.

Fuck everything.

Fuck Dean for being wise and kind and sad and beautiful and gentle and sensitive and angry and honest and dishonest and frustrated with the world and everything in it yet saturated with love for it, fuck Dean and everything he says and how he sounds when he’s happy and how he sounds when he’s miserable, _fuck Dean_ and Castiel really _wants_ to fuck Dean yet he’s also afraid he wants to spend years of his life with him.

 

…

 

Dean doesn’t see Castiel at all for the next few days.

He’s been a fucking idiot, and he hates himself, and he wants to go back and stop himself from ever meeting the angel, ever thinking that _maybe_ the angel liked him. It was stupid and pointless and if Ezekiel hadn’t called Dean back inside at that party, Dean would have almost certainly poured his heart out to the angel and tried to kiss him and then, inevitably, have been rejected.

Dean is miserable.

He decides to stop by Ezekiel’s later on to see if he wants to join Dean in spending the evening activity of getting pissed, because the first time Dean sucked Gadreel off, the angel offered to buy him drink for parties, and since then Gadreel has been buying alcohol for Dean in return for sleeping with the guy.  And it’s stupid and classless and Dean really hates himself for it—he doesn’t think Gadreel knows this—and if _Castiel_ knew Dean would _die_ ; the angel probably already thinks that Dean is cheap and tacky as fuck and that he doesn’t have any standards or self-respect—if he found out that Dean was essentially being _bought?!_

Dean can only imagine the stoic, unimpressed, quietly disgusted look he’d get from the dark haired angel.

And the really sad thing is that Dean only does it because he has so little fucking money and he can’t stand the thought of spending every night sober.

He at least has some very good friends to help him through everything—and as it is, Castiel has seemed to like Dean rather a lot more than he used to, of late—Dean held a _huge_ conversation with him at the party, Castiel confirmed that his present was genuine and not some cruel joke to make Dean think that the angel actually _liked_ him; _and_ Dean got to hold Castiel’s hand.

It’s stupid to get so excited over it, he knows—but he thinks it may be the first time the angel had actually _touched_ him, and it was to hold Dean’s hand. It all feels slightly unreal. If he replays the memory just right, he can make it out like Castiel was doing it out of affection and not out of comfort and kindness—but even if he doesn’t play it right; comfort and kindness are infinitely better than any of the ways Castiel _used_ to act around Dean.

Ezekiel would laughs so freaking hard at Dean if the human told him any of this—it’s definitely dumb to get so hyped over a crush not hating your very existence, Dean recognises—but it’s not like Ezekiel’s ever going to find out. As far as ‘Zeke is concerned, Dean is all but over Castiel. And soon Dean will be pissed with his best friend—who will once again be super impressed that Dean has managed to get his hands on his own drink—and the pair will be laughing about something really stupid the other has said, and Dean will be able to forget about all his problems and shortcomings for a night. What a happy thought.

“Hey, ‘Zeke—” Dean opens the door of Ezekiel’s room and steps inside, the grin on his face at this thought growing wide and triumphant. But _shit;_ no sooner than he has done so, he sees that the room is void of his best friend and instead occupied by Castiel. Who is probably _super_ embarrassed that he stooped so low as to _hold Dean’s hand_ at the party, and now probably wants to avoid Dean for at least another month. At least. “—Oh—” He cuts himself off, thousands of tiny threads of despair twisting sharply in him. _Shit. Shit_. “—Sorry—I thought he’d be in here…” Dean glances about the room uncomfortably—the ‘he’, here, he hopes Castiel understands refers of course to Ezekiel. All that Dean can think to say is vague with panic and embarrassment and makes very little sense at all. Castiel presses his lips together. Dean’s heart drops a little further into his stomach at the expression; it seems horribly unpromising.

“Well, he’s out.” The angel shrugs. No fucking kidding. Oh, god, Dean’s life is an embarrassment and this is horribly awkward and why can’t Dean just be normal?! Is that too much to ask?! He shifts on his feet, glancing back at the door and desperately wishing his was on the other side of it.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” Dean asks. Castiel’s eyes flick over to the bag in Dean’s hand.

“No, sorry.” He shakes his head. “He’s at a party, I think. Won’t be back for a while, if at all, tonight.”

“Oh.” Dean sputters slightly. He doesn’t want to feel desperate or jealous over the fact that Ezekiel didn’t even _tell_ him he would be at a party tonight. Why didn’t he tell Dean? Does he suddenly find Dean annoying? Has he _always_ found Dean annoying? “Well, I’ll get out of your hair—I’m sorry for bothering you—” Dean makes his way to leave, his mind whirring with sadness and worry and restlessness inside his skull, but something about this movement has the angel reaching out his hand to stop Dean from exiting.

“You don’t have to go,” Castiel says quickly. Dean can’t help the useless hope that these words fill him with, rising like lukewarm water inside his chest. “Stay a while, if you want.” The angel shrugs. “Just because Ezekiel’s not here, doesn’t mean you have to leave.” He laughs. Right. Of course. Dean laughs too; except it sounds almost comically forced and he cuts it short before it can continue for any more pain-filled length of time.

“Right,” He shakes his head. “I, uh—I got some Jack—I was gonna share it with ‘Zeke, but you’re here, so—”

“How did you get hold of that?” Castiel frowns. Dean glances up to his face again. “You’re underage.”

“I’ve got my methods.” Dean replies, trying to balance sounding vague with not _too_ closed off. Why not closed off? Why can’t he get over the angel? Would there really be any problem with Dean being just as cold to Castiel as Castiel has always been to him?

“Well, whatever they are, I wish I’d known about them when I was a freshman.”

Dean laughs again, nervous from the flattery coming from the angel and from the worry that Castiel will find out how fucking cheap he is; that he was in fact effectively _bought_.

“What do you do to get hold of booze, then?” He asks, attempting to shift the subject. He cringes at the unease in his own voice.

“I used to just scrounge off friends.” Castiel shrugs. “But then I met a guy who did ID’s and got him to make me one at a discount.”

“You’ve got a fake ID?”

“Yeah,” Castiel shrugs, laughing. “But you’ve gotta use it somewhere where it’s unlikely they’ll clock that you go here, to the university, and that you’re underage when it comes to buying alcohol.”

Dean nods. He tries to force himself to feel a little more comfortable—at least he’s having a decent conversation with Castiel—and he thinks he succeeds in settling into the room a little better; he no longer protrudes like an ugly splinter in the pad of a thumb, he sighs into the room and feels the room sigh back into him. He continues doing this in a vague, distracted attempt to calm himself.

“Do you want to sit down?”

“Right.” Dean shakes his head. Because if he’s staying, it’d be pretty fucking weird to spend the whole time standing, wouldn’t it? He tugs one of the beanbags from out of its place, in the corner of the room, but Castiel laughs and nudges it away with his foot as soon as it is in kicking distance.

What the fuck?

What the fuck does Dean do now?

Was the angel joking when he invited Dean to sit? Was he joking when he invited Dean to stay? Is this all just some horrible kind of joke?!

“I—” Dean stammers, his face red. The angel shakes his head and shifts along his bed, making room for Dean on it.

“Here.” Castiel says.

What?

“You can sit next to me, if you want. I know how uncomfortable those things are.” He nods over to the beanbags, before turning back to Dean, who doesn’t quite believe what he’s just heard. He nods stiffly and sits next to Castiel, hands in his lap.

“You should be careful with that, by the way.” Castiel nods to the bag. Dean glances up, frowning.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“If the dean catches you with it, you’ll be eaten alive.”

“Oh,” Dean laughs. “Yeah.”

He pulls the bottle out of the bag and opens it.

“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.” He grins—for one of the few times in his and Castiel’s interactions, he manages to come across as a little more confident and roguish. He used to be like this all the time; confident and slick as fuck, but then everything changed, then _Dean_ changed—

Something about his expression and tone has Castiel bursting out laughing—which makes Dean’s heart catch up in itself with some kind of invulnerable happiness; and Dean settles a little more into his seat. He tries to convince himself that he doesn’t shift closer to Castiel at the sound of the angel’s warmed laughter, but he’s pretty sure he’s lying.

“I don’t have any cups, or anything.” Dean realises, glancing down. Castiel shrugs.

“That’s fine.” The angel replies, nonchalantly. “We can drink straight from the bottle.”

“Fair enough.” Dean laughs. “Do you want first swig?”

“It’s your Jack,” Castiel laughs. “You should probably break into it.”

“Alright.” Dean grins, before taking a drink from the bottle. He winces as soon as he’s swallowed, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“How is it?” Castiel asks, laughing.

“Like piss.” Dean shakes his head.

“Maybe it’s an acquired taste.”

“I can believe it.”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head—is this affectionate? Dean prays that it is as Castiel takes the bottle when it is offered to him.

“It’ll probably grow on you.” He shrugs.

“Like coffee does.”

“Like coffee,” Castiel agrees, taking a gulp of the drink. “But it’s probably best not to drink in the morning.”

“Probably.” Dean chuckles, taking another drink. “Fuck,” He gasps. “It’s so bad.”

“You’re just too immature to appreciate fine whiskey.” Castiel grins. Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m seriously so lost as to how you got a hold of this.” He shakes his head. “You’re fucking _nineteen.”_

“Yeah,” Dean shrugs. “But I’ve got friends.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

“Good friends.” Dean corrects.

“Good friends buy you alcohol?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

Ah, fuck.

“Give a little, take a little.” Dean shrugs.

“What kind of give are we talking, here?” Castiel asks, chuckling.

“I have my ways.” Dean replies.

Cas knows. Of course he knows. Oh, for fucks sake.

“I might just have to buy you some drinks myself, if that’s how it is.” Castiel laughs. “I think I’d like to see these ways in action.”

_What?!_ Is Dean hearing things? How does he respond to this? How _can_ he respond to this?! Is Castiel merely taking the piss, again—or does he mean it? _Could_ he mean it?

Before Dean can think of anything else, a swell of courage and stupidity surges through him, and he babbles out;

“You wouldn’t have to buy me a drink, first, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. He looks just about as shocked as Dean feels that the human managed to muster up the courage to come out with that comment.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods, looking down. Fuck. What has he just said? What’s he doing?!

Castiel takes a drink.

“Well, I think I’ll have to take you up on that, some time.”

Dean’s breath catches in his throat as his head shoots back up to look at Castiel.

Fucking hell.

This has got to be a dream.

The angel hands him the drink. He takes it.

“People usually have mixers for these.” Castiel gestures to the bottle. “To drown out the taste. Coke, and the like.”

“People have no class.” Dean shrugs. “We’re drinkin’ it straight.”

“You certainly seem to have changed your tune.” Castiel chuckles. Dean laughs softly and shakes his head.

“Take it as me trying to impress you, Cas.” He replies, perhaps more honestly than he ought to.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Castiel smirks. Dean’s heart drops into his stomach. He’s sure his face heats to the temperature of a thousand suns. “You know, if you spin round after taking shots, you’re supposed to get drunker, faster.”

Castiel changes the subject, apparently noting Dean’s mortified expression. The human fumbles a little nervously with his hands and attempts to move on.

“Is that with whiskey, though?” He asks. “Would it have the same effect?”

“It’s probably with everything.” Castiel laughs.

“Well then,” Dean hands Castiel the bottle. Castiel’s laughter sounds a little too teasing for Dean to be comfortable with it, and Dean decides that it’s time for _Cas_ to be the one making a fool out of himself, this time. “You first.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and takes a swig from the bottle.

“Ahh,” He wrinkles his nose. “That’s gone straight to my head.”

“You still have to spin.” Dean grins.

Castiel pulls a face of mock exasperation but stands, turning round once.

“Faster.” Dean says. “I bet it has to be faster than that. And more than _once,_ Cas, c’mon.”

Castiel swats at Dean, but spins again, anyway.

He sits down, looking giddy.

“’It work?” Dean asks. Castiel looks up at him. His gaze is slightly distant.

“I’m pretty fucking sure, yeah.” He nods. He gestures to the Jack, now in Dean’s hands. “Your go.”

Dean steels himself and takes a drink, before standing and spinning.

“Oh, fuck.” He stumbles slightly. His head feels somewhat alienated from the rest of his body. It’s not much of a pleasant sensation. “Yeah, okay, you were right.”

“Told you.” Castiel smirks triumphantly. He turns where he sits and lies back on the bed. Dean glances down at him, confusion twisting sharply in his gut. What’s going on? What is Cas _doing?_ “Come on, then.” Castiel frowns, patting the empty space beside him.

They’re doing that, then.

Dean takes a large gulp of a drink before lying down next to the angel.

“It feels like warm blankets are coiling in my tummy.” He states, absently. It’s a stupid comment and he regrets saying it instantly, especially when Castiel glances at him before bursting out laughing.

And then he says something Dean wouldn’t have expected in a million years.

“You’re adorable.”

Dean’s mind draws some kind of wispy, unbelieving blank. Is the angel being sarcastic? Is he taking the piss?

“And probably right.” Castiel presses a hand to his stomach thoughtfully. “It feels like that to me, too.”

“It’s nice.” Dean states absently. He feels awkward again, but not the bad kind of awkward—the kind of awkward where butterflies are being sent shooting along his system and the world feels somehow unreal.

“It is.” Castiel agrees distractedly. Is his gaze flitting down to Dean’s lips? Is Dean just wishing it?! “How have you been, Dean?” The angel asks, eyes grazing back up to the human’s. Dean swallows thickly.

“What do you mean, how have I been?”

“That rhymed,” Castiel chuckles, eyes crinkling at their corners. Dean thinks he has seen the angel smile more in the space of this meeting than he ever has before.

“Yeah, I guess it did.” He frowns. “So did your question.”

“Yes…” Castiel looks upwards. “Been… Dean… Mean…”

Dean is really fucking lost.

“We should go outside.” The angel states suddenly, turning back to face the human.

“What?” Dean frowns.

“We should drink outside.” Castiel repeats, rather unhelpfully.

“We’ll get caught.” Dean laughs.

“So?”

“So, you’re such an idiot.” The human beams despite himself, shaking his head.

“So is everyone.” The angel shakes his head. “And anyway, it’s a very romantic setting.” Castiel hums thoughtfully. “Night. The dark sky. With whiskey.”

“It’d be more romantic if it was champagne.” Dean points out.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“That’s true.” Dean hums. “But I don’t know if I’m much of one for romance, anyway.”

“No?” Castiel frowns.

“No.” Dean shakes his head.

“Why’s that?”

“Things never work out the way you want them to, you know?”

“Well, if you think about it, Dean—things can only ever work out the right way, once. All those other times, it’s not ending happily because you can only get _one_ happy ending. Because you only get one life, and that only gets one ending. So all those sad endings—they’re just building up to that one, really happy ending, that blows everything else out the water and makes all the pain and sadness seem totally worth it. Does that make sense?”

“I guess…” Dean frowns thoughtfully. “So you think you are a romantic?”

“I think I might be too cynical and sarcastic to be a romantic.” Castiel laughs honestly. Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “But I think I’m that way because I’m afraid of it all, and I’m afraid of the world. And I’m afraid of what the world might turn me into if I open up to any part of it—become vulnerable in any way. You know?”

“You’re afraid of the world turning you into something worse than the cynic you are?”

“Yes.” Castiel admits genuinely. “I think that pretty much sums it up.”

“I get that.”

“You do?” The angel looks at him, almost hopefully.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, “but I guess you control what person you become, no matter how the world treats you. And you can’t decide what anyone else is gonna be like, but you get to create _you,_ and that’s a pretty awesome opportunity really. So you might as well create yourself brilliant and kind and whatever the fuck you want to be, and ignore the world when it beats you down and love it when it lifts you up. You know?”

Castiel takes another drink before giving the bottle to Dean.

“You really are the wisest person I’ve ever encountered.” The angel states with wide, hazy eyes that make Dean desperate to look away.

“Yeah, that’s definitely not true.” Dean shakes his head.

“It is.” The angel frowns defiantly. “You’re rather brilliant simply in yourself, and what’s most wonderful about that is I genuinely believe you don’t even _try_ to be just so _—_ despite the fact that you believe in self-creation.”

“Cas, I can’t even work out my _own_ life, don’t try and take advice from me—”

“Nobody knows what they’re doing; but we do beautiful things anyway.” Castiel states, interrupting Dean. Dean frowns and stares at the angel, perplexed. “That’s a quote from Allen Ginsberg. It’s very nice. Comforting, even. I think you do some of the most beautiful things around, Dean—and perhaps you have the smallest idea of what you’re doing, out of all of us.”

“—I—” Dean stammers. He glances down to the bottle and takes a large drink from it. The alcohol burns his throat. Castiel’s words burn his ears. “—I wish you wouldn’t say stuff like that, Cas…” He admits, perhaps a little too honestly, voice quiet and cracking like the top layer of earth on a scalding hot day.

“Why not?” The angel frowns.

Dean sighs defeatedly, unable to answer, and looks up at the ceiling, handing Castiel the bottle before looping his arms behind his head. There’s a silence for a moment. Castiel takes a large gulp before handing the bottle back to Dean. Dean sighs. Takes a swig of drink. Sighs again. His heart settles heavy, like dirt on an old road, inside his chest.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, frowning in a way that Dean _shouldn’t_ want to kiss the angel because of.

“This isn’t going to help me.” He groans, rubbing his face. “It’s such a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” Castiel’s frown grows with confusion—Dean isn’t making any sense and he _knows_ it, but he feels too depressed to speak at all coherently.

“I shouldn’t be doing this. Thinking shit means shit when it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t mean shit?”

“Nope.”

“Sorry, what doesn’t?” Castiel squints, still apparently lost—and who can blame him?

“Me, drinking with you. Me thinking you—” Dean sighs resignedly, cutting himself off. Fuck, he’s saying too much, he always says too much in front of the angel and he wishes that he would just shut the fuck up, now more than ever.

“What are you talking about?”

“It may have escaped your notice, Cas—and please note that I’m only saying this ‘cause I’m really quite fucking tipsy—but I have an enormous, painful, irreparable crush on you. Always have.”

There it is.

It was surprisingly easy to admit out loud.

“It hadn’t escaped my notice, no.” Castiel admits, shaking his head. Dean groans, stomach twisting itself into despondent knots. Every cell in his body breathes outwards, dejectedly.

“Figures.” He sighs again.

“What’s the problem?”

“I’m an idiot, is what’s the problem.” Dean mutters. Castiel frowns and shoves Dean, who nearly falls down the side of the bed at this.

“What was that for?!” Dean scowls, very tempted to shove the angel back.

“You being an idiot and thinking you’re an idiot.”

That makes no fucking sense at all.

Dean squints in confusion at the angel, but Castiel has already sat up and is looking back at Dean expectantly.

“Come on,” He says, reaching for Dean’s hand and tugging at it. “Let’s go outside.”

“We’ll get caught—” Dean shakes his head, but Castiel gives him a look that shuts him up completely and sends a nervous fluttering darting through his system.

“What’s life without a little risk?” The angel shrugs carelessly, tugging Dean up off the bed.

“You’re impossible—” Dean shakes his head.

“It’s been said.” Castiel shrugs again, pulling Dean out of the dorm.

“And maddening.” Dean says. Castiel only laughs in response. “And maddeningly stubborn.”

“That’s also been said.”

“I bet Ezekiel says it all the time.”

“He does.” Castiel nods. “I’m surprised he doesn’t say it behind my back, to be honest.”

“Oh, he does.” Dean grins. Castiel rolls his eyes, tittering, and pushes open the doors leading outside. “It’s cold.” Dean states as soon as he steps out into the dark. He’s seconds away from telling Castiel that he wants to go back inside, but the angel cuts his thoughts entirely short.

“Yeah, it is.” Castiel agrees. He turns to Dean quickly. “We could huddle together for warmth.”

What?

“Or we could just go inside—” Dean stammers nervously—and why is he saying this? After so many months of pining after Castiel, the angel suggests that the two of them sit together, drunk, under a starry sky—and Dean is fucking _backing out?!_

“Cuddling sounds better.” Castiel pulls Dean down, onto the floor.

“You said huddling, before—” Dean points out, frowning.

“Well, cuddling sounds even _better_ than huddling, wouldn’t you agree?” The angel looks over to Dean with amusement sparking in his eyes.

“I guess.” Dean shrugs awkwardly, having to look away.

Castiel hands him the bottle.

“Okay,” He says, “new game. We take it in turns to say something, and you have to drink, if you’ve ever done that thing before. Deal?”

Dean frowns.

“You’ll drink, too?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Of course.” Castiel replies, almost defensively, as he shuffles a little closer to Dean.

“Fine.” Dean nods.

“Got so drunk you’ve been sick.” Castiel says. Dean laughs and shakes his head.

“Seriously?!” Castiel raises his eyebrows, grabbing the bottle and taking a drink. He sounds oddly impressed.

“Seriously.” Dean confirms. “I hate puking with such a passion, you have no idea. It’s so horrible. I made a vow to myself never to puke again a while back—but that was for…” He trails off. “Different reasons.” He decides. “I wasn’t drunk. And I’ve passed out when fucked, I’ve done crazy embarrassing shit, _taken_ all kinds of awful shit, but I’m good at keeping puke down.”

“Lucky.” Castiel shakes his head wistfully. “Do you even get hung-over?”

“Yeah.” Dean laughs. “And I’ve got so wasted that I woke up the next morning, and was still drunk.”

“Haven’t we all?” Castiel grins.

“Alright, my turn.” Dean chuckles, taking the bottle from Castiel and placing it inbetween them, again. He pauses a moment, thinking.

“Okay: kissed Ezekiel.”

It’s a bit of a joke—except not really, because he’s _really_ fucking curious and honestly, a little jealous.

“No!” Castiel laughs, shaking his head. Relief seeps through Dean and it tastes sweet on his tongue. The sweetness spreads through to his limbs when Castiel raises his eyebrows warmly in Dean’s direction. “Have you?”

“No,” Dean grins. “I was just seeing if you had.”

“Have you ever wanted to?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head. “You?”

“No.”

“Poor guy.” Dean hums. “Facing rejection at every corner.”

Castiel laughs and bumps Dean with his shoulder. The touch has lighting sparking through every one of Dean’s cells.

“Alright, next one: kissed a guy.”

They both know this about each other already, but Dean supposes that it’s groundwork—laying down the foundations before the subjects get even _more_ personal.

Both of them drink.

“Lost my virginity.”

Both of them drink.

And again, both of them know this. Perhaps Castiel asked this question so that the follow-up question of—“When did you lose yours?”—could be asked.

“High school.” Castiel shrugs. “A girl called Hannah. She was nice, she liked me more than I liked her though, I think. It was round at her place because I lived in a children’s home and the walls were especially thin and the whole place was in fairly awful condition, in general. You?”

Oh, fuck. Dean really doesn’t want to talk about _this._

“It depends what you define as virginity.” He replies, voice closed off and somewhat frosty.

“What do you mean by that?”

“It depends.” Dean shrugs again.

“You’re being deliberately vague.” Castiel sighs.

“Yeah.” Dean replies flatly. “I am.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You just don’t want to elaborate?”

“Don’t even want to talk about it.” Dean shrugs.    

“Okay,” Castiel nods, “fair enough.”

Dean sighs inwardly with relief.

“Sucked a guy’s dick.”

Both of them drink.

“Had someone suck my dick.”

Castiel drinks. Dean doesn’t.

“Seriously?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” Dean nods.

“Why’s that?”

“I guess nobody’s ever wanted to.” Dean admits, swallowing thickly.

“I refuse to believe that.” Castiel laughs.

“Well, that doesn’t make it any less true.” Dean points out. He feels suddenly defensive and closed off.

“Why haven’t you?”

“I’m a giver.” Dean shrugs, attempting humour. Castiel doesn’t take the bait.

“Not to that extent.” The angel frowns. “That’s ridiculous. If you’ve given head, fucked people, done all that other stuff, it’s ridiculous that someone hasn’t given _you_ head. Unless you’ve never wanted anyone to do it?”

“I’ve definitely _wanted_ people to.”

“So why not?”

Dean sighs, exasperated.

“I don’t know, Cas, okay? Why do you want my tragic backstory, anyway?”

“Because I care about you.” Castiel replies. He ought to be lying, but his tone is honest and genuine and Dean thinks he’s dying at the sound of Cas’s voice. He looks up at the angel, taken aback. “And what’s with the ‘Cas’ thing, anyway?” He asks. “You’ve been calling me that all evening.”

Oh, shit.

“Um—” Dean shakes his head, embarrassment flooding his system like dirty rainwater. “—I don’t know—I’m sorry—”

“You don’t need to apologise.” Castiel shrugs. “What’s the problem with a nickname?”

“Right.” Dean nods awkwardly. “—So it’s okay?” He asks uncertainly.

“It’s fine.” The angel laughs. “Nice, even.” Dean sees stars in Castiel’s eyes. “Here’s another,” the angel says, changing the subject. “Done sexual favours for alcohol.”

Dean groans and drinks, mortified.

“I knew it!” Castiel laughs.

“I know you knew it.” Dean nearly cries.

“What kind of favours?”

“Whatever they want, really.” Dean shrugs despondently. “Chances are I’ve done worse, anyway.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“Anyone, really?”

“Anyone specific?”

“ _Cas,”_ Dean groans, looking away.

“Not in a mean way,” Castiel shakes his head quickly. “Just in a—I don’t know—”

“Gadreel.” Dean replies honestly, cutting the angel off, because he wants to see if any jealousy flickers in the angel’s eyes, at this; wants to see if Castiel actually gives a fuck. “And a couple of others. But mainly him.”

“And you and him are…”

“Nothing.” Dean shakes his head. He’s absolutely mortified. “We’re just…”

“Sorry, this is clearly embarrassing you.” Castiel states when Dean trails off. “And I said I would stop making you uncomfortable.”

“No, it’s fine—”

“What about this one: smoked weed.” Castiel interrupts.

Dean drinks. So does Castiel.

“Seriously?” Dean asks.

“You’re surprised?”

“You just don’t seem like the type.”

“Dean, I burn incense in my room.”

“Yeah, I know. Ezekiel complains about it all the time.”

“All I’m saying is, I really sort of _am_ the type.”

“You mean that you’re a hippy.” Dean can’t help but grin. Castiel responds stunningly good-naturedly.

“If that’s the way you see it.” Castiel laughs.

“Stolen something.”

Castiel drinks.

“Seriously?” Dean asks, again.

“Yes.” Castiel frowns.

“What kind of stuff?”

“Food, mainly.”

“Why?”

“Dean, I was raised in a children’s home.” Castiel reminds. “It had virtually no funding at all—it was an exclusively _angel_ home—the government don’t really give a shit about those—”

“Then that hardly counts.” Dean frowns in defence of Castiel. “You needed it.”

“It still counts as stealing, whether you need it or not.”

Dean frowns.

“You’d still get put in prison for it.” Castiel reminds. “And why do you think most people steal, anyway?”

“Well, I guess—but I sort of meant more along the lines of shoplifting. Robbing a bank. Becoming a jewel thief.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Castiel laughs.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

“Been in love.” Castiel says. Dean looks down, uncertainly. Could he say that he was ever in love with Alastair? Before things had got bad? He hates the guy now, to be sure—but once upon a time…

And what about Castiel? How does he feel towards Cas? It’s not love—maybe not, maybe not _yet—_ but it feels more and more like falling every day, and maybe…

Dean drinks. Fuck it, he might as well. Castiel follows suit.

“Well?” The angel raises his eyebrows at Dean.

“Well, what?”

“Who?”

“I’m not telling.” Dean laughs. “What about you?”

“If you’re not telling, I’m not.” Castiel chuckles.

“Fair enough. Gotten in a fight.”

Both of them drink.

“Been with a girl.”

Both of them drink.

“Fucked a girl.”

Both drink.

“Had a one night stand.”

Only Dean drinks.

“You’ve never had a one nighter?” He raises his eyebrows at Castiel.

“I don’t like to call them that.” Castiel shrugs.

“Fuck, you really _are_ a hippy.” He can’t help but giggle.

Castiel chuckles and rolls his eyes.

“It makes them sound meaningless.” He shakes his head. “When really it should be all about making each other happy. It cheapens things, you know?”

“I guess…” Dean shrugs. “But I’m pretty cheap anyway…”

“No you’re not.” Castiel cuts off, matter-of-factly. “What a ridiculous suggestion. People can’t actually _be_ cheap—it’s just the rest of the world being unkind for them enjoying themselves. If you enjoy yourself, and so does the other person, then that’s all that matters. It’s about happiness and the morality of the actual _act,_ you know? Both parties—or indeed, however many parties are involved—have to be totally up for whatever’s going on. There’s no question of ‘cheap’. God, I hate it when people say that.” He sighs into the night air. “And that’s not a dig at you, by the way,” He quickly amends. “But when people use that kind of language to degrade other people, I just…” He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “Wow, I hate it. Girls get it worst. But I think you’ve got it a fair bit over the years—if that’s alright for me to say. And I think it’s awful. Fuck, I think it’s awful. Sex is about enjoyment, constant enthusiasm, understanding. Period.”

“Right.” Dean nods. He doesn’t think he’s had many encounters of the nature that Castiel describes; where he’s genuinely enjoyed himself the whole way through, where he’s constantly consenting to what’s going on. He’s always worrying or _remembering_ —

“Been in hospital.” Castiel interrupts Dean’s thoughts.

Dean drinks.

“What happened?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human.

“Long story.” Dean shrugs. He _really_ doesn’t want to go into this.

“Been in a long-term relationship.”

Neither of them drink.

“Wow, we’re seriously fucked up, aren’t we?” Dean laughs hollowly.

“We are.” Castiel agrees. “Why haven’t you been in a long term relationship?”

“I dunno.” Dean shakes his head. “Well, I guess it depends what you define as long term.”

“Not this again.” Castiel laughs. “Longer than three months, let’s say.”

“Ooh,” Dean winces, sucking air through his teeth. “I’ve had one pretty close to the three month boundary.”

“What happened?”

“A good thing.”

“Which was?”

“Me getting out.”

Castiel decides not to press.

“Had sex in public.”

Dean drinks.

“Ew,” Castiel wrinkles his nose. “Why?”

“’Cause I’m fucking irresistible and they could see it.” Dean laughs. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You’re more confident when you’re drunk.”

“I’m more confident when I’m not around you.”

“What does that mean?” Castiel frowns.

“You make me really nervous.” Dean replies honestly.

“Oh.” The angel’s face lines with something difficult to pinpoint. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, man.” Dean shrugs. “My problem.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Mine, too. I’ve been a dick to you.”

“You haven’t.” Dean frowns. “You’ve just been _wary_. Big difference.”

Castiel sighs.

“Well, I’m going to stop.”

“You already have, to be honest.”

“I want you to feel comfortable around me.”

“It’ll be hard to do that unless I’m drunk, in all honesty.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because,” Dean sighs, “of my irreparable crush.”

“Oh.” Castiel says, simply.

“Yeah,” Dean rubs his face. “Oh.”

“Kissed Castiel Novak.” Castiel says. Dean frowns and looks up.

“What?”

“Have you ever kissed Castiel Novak?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, thoroughly confused. Where is Castiel going with this?

“Me neither.” The angel replies, laughing. “I guess neither of us can drink to that.”

“I guess not.” Dean deadpans.

“Would you like to?”

“What?” Dean looks back up at Castiel.

“Kiss Castiel Novak.” Castiel giggles.

Dean has got to be dreaming; this can’t be fucking real—he probably ended up getting pissed all alone and passed out and now he’s dreaming about Castiel talking about _kissing_ him.

“Um—” Dean sputters. “—You—”

Castiel leans closer. Brushes his nose across Dean’s.

Dean can’t breathe.

“Would you like to?”

None of this is real. It can’t be real—Castiel can’t want to _kiss_ Dean; Dean is _Dean_ and he’s nothing special or noteworthy and there’s no reason in the _world_ that Castiel would want to—

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Yeah, please.”

Castiel beams.

The world is swimming in front of Dean as the angel leans close and presses his lips to Dean’s. They’re so soft; holy shit, so soft—gentle, that is, like Castiel thinks Dean is made of butterfly wings and all he wants to do is feel Dean’s lips flutter against his own for a glorious infinity of a moment. Cas’s fingers move to card softly through Dean’s hair, and everything seems perfect and _what the fuck is going on?!_ How drunk is Dean? How drunk is _Cas_? Dean can’t even remember how this _happened,_ how Cas’s lips ended up pressed to his own, how they ended up sat so close together outside, how he ended up in Castiel’s dorm in the first place. He can’t think and he almost doesn’t want to; so he decides not to—he decides to think of nothing else other than how perfect Cas’s touches are, how kind and warm and gentle his mouth is, how his hands in Dean’s hair feel like they’re sending sparks across Dean’s scalp, how he wants this moment to last forever. Their mouths mould together and Dean realises that he makes a startled little sound at the back of his throat; Castiel lets out this soft little growl that has Dean wanting to be fucked by the angel until the sun rises; it sends something dancing up his insides and pooling warm, inside of him. Castiel kisses him deeper, harder, now—tongue dipping into his mouth and fingertips tracing down the back of Dean’s neck; nothing else matters, nothing else has ever mattered, all Castiel seems to want is more of the human and more of his touches, and Dean is more than happy to oblige. The human stutters a groan again, his hands sliding up to grip at Castiel’s shoulders like he’s afraid he’s going to fall off the face of the planet; Dean is running out of breath and he desperately wants to gasp for air but he _never_ wants to stop kissing Castiel, to have Castiel stop kissing him.

The angel’s hands slide down to his hips and rest there, warm and perfect and gentle and everything that Dean needs, and eventually Cas pulls back, catching Dean’s bottom lip in his mouth, between his teeth and sucking slightly. This earns him a whimper from Dean’s mouth, soft and barely there at all as it teeters nervously into the night air.

“You’re a damn good kisser.” Dean croaks into the distance now between the pair, his voice rough and breathless.

“Thank you,” Castiel smiles smugly. “You’re pretty good, yourself.”

“I’m normally better.” Dean straightens up a little, pressing his lips nervously together. “I just—this time I was sort of taken aback.”

“You were wonderful,” The angel humours, “and another time, perhaps.” He laughs. He hands Dean the bottle. Dean frowns questioningly. “Drink.” Castiel says. “I said ‘kissed Castiel Novak’; and now you’ve kissed him. You have to drink.”

“Oh—” Dean practically giggles, taking the bottle from Castiel’s hands. “—I have, now, haven’t I?”

Castiel laughs as Dean takes a swig from the bottle before placing it inbetween the two of them again.

“Kissed Dean Winchester.” Dean says, grinning.

Castiel smiles wolfishly and picks up the bottle, taking a drink from it and placing it down.

“Killed someone.” Castiel grins. Dean laughs and rolls his eyes.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I’m glad that you think so.”

“Eaten someone out.”

Both drink.

“Had someone walk in on you while you’re hooking up with someone.”

Both drink.

“Who?” Castiel laughs.

“My brother.” Dean grins.

“I bet he has to put up with a lot.”

“He does.” Dean chuckles. “Okay, had your roommate walk in on you while you’re hooking up with someone. Like, _in the process of,_ if you get what I mean.”

“I do.” The angel laughs, and drinks.

“Seriously?” Dean grins. “Who was it?”

“Some girl from a party.” Castiel shrugs. “We’d just been going for a casual thing; Ezekiel walks in, is naturally super embarrassed and annoyed, I get my head bitten off the next opportunity he gets.”

“I imagine he gave you quite a telling off.”

“He did.” Castiel hums, grinning.

“Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Only time will tell.”

Dean laughs and rolls his eyes, lying back on the grass. Castiel follows suit, picking up the bottle, which had been sitting inbetween the two of them, so that he can lie close enough to Dean that their sides are touching. The touch feels like magic to Dean, yet nothing close to as wonderful as kissing the angel was.

Holy shit, he’s actually _kissed_ Castiel. Did that really happen? Was he dreaming it? He’s had dreams of this description before, after all, but—

“What a beautiful night.” The angel observes.

“Yeah,” Dean nods absently. “Very nice. Full moon.” He hums, staring upwards. Castiel smiles gently and rests the back of his head on his right hand.

“It is.” He agrees. “Better watch out for werewolves.”

“Dude,” Dean laughs. “Shut up.”

“Are you scared, Dean?” Castiel laughs. “Wow, I never took you as the type to actually _believe_ —”

“Cas—!” Dean laughs, rolling his head back.

“It’s okay, you know. I’ll protect you, if needs be.” Castiel grins, leaning closer to Dean.

“You’d do that?”

“Of course I would!”

“I’d do it for you, too.”

“That’s adorable. You’d be too scared.”

“Cas, I’m not afraid of werewolves.”

“Really? Because you could’ve fooled me.”

Dean sighs, still laughing, and elbows Castiel.

“What are you scared of, then?” Castiel asks.

“Hm,” Dean hums. “A lot of things, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Making a fool out of myself in front of you.” Dean laughs.

“You’ve already done that on countless occasions, so I wouldn’t worry about that one too much.”

“You’re a dick.”

“I know.” Castiel laughs. “What else?”

“I don’t know—I think I’d die if anything happened to Sammy.”

“Your younger brother?”

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “Or Jo.”

“I feel the same about my sister.”

“Rachel?”

“Yes.” Castiel confirms. “She’s everything to me.”

“I get it.” Dean nods. “Same with Sammy and Jo.”

“I bet you’re a great big brother.”

“I bet you are, too.”

“Thanks.”

“What else are you scared of?”

“Oh, fuck,” Castiel sighs. “I don’t know. A lot.”

“But you always act so brave.” Dean frowns.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of shit.”

“So what, exactly?” Dean asks.

Castiel pauses a moment. His eyes turn sad.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs. The motion seems dishonest. “Werewolves.” He grins.

“Fuck off.” Dean laughs, elbowing Castiel softly. “You’re the _worst_ person to get deep with.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you just end up making me laugh.”

“Laughing isn’t a _bad_ thing.”

“It is for deep chats.”

“Well, you make me laugh, too.” Castiel replies.

“I guess we’re a good match.” Dean says, absently. Castiel turns to face him.

“I guess we are.” He nods. His eyes crinkle at their corners.

There is silence for a moment. Dean feels his heart sink into his stomach, because Castiel is looking at him suddenly with regret. Why regret? Oh, fuck—he regrets kissing Dean; he regrets tonight—Dean is an idiot and is fucking useless and he should have known better, guck fuck _fuck;_ he’s probably ruined the sort-of friendship that he had going on with Castiel, fuck _fuck—_

“I should be getting back.” Dean croaks. Castiel sighs. Dean sits up and feels tears pressing at his eyes.

“Yeah,” He nods, following Dean’s example and sitting up, sighing as he does so. “Okay.”

Dean stands, taking the bottle with him, and leaves, stumbling slightly.

“Are you alright for getting back?” Castiel calls after him.

“Yeah,” Dean calls over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. The sky hangs heavy with regret. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll see you around, then.”

“I guess you will.”

Dean has fucked up. He can’t stop. Holy shit, he’s fucked up, and he hates himself, and he starts crying all over again. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t think he ever will.

 

…

 

Castiel burns with the kiss all night. Ezekiel comes in late; Castiel pretends to be sleeping and instead lies wide awake, riddled with regret. He should have kissed Dean again—he should have told Dean how he felt— _feels—_ he shouldn’t have let Dean walk away without offering the human an explanation, he shouldn’t have done _any_ of it the way he did. Fuck. Dean is going to be beside himself with worry—naturally—and Castiel is all to blame. Why can’t he just be kinder to the human? More honest? Why did he have to kiss Dean as part of a _game?_

He lies awake for hours. He should go to Dean’s dorm and explain himself. He should go to Dean’s dorm and ask the human out. Ask him if he can kiss him again. But he stays in bed, lying on his side, staring at the wall and wishing he were braver, kinder, more honest—but he’s not. He’s a fucking coward and he carries on staring at the wall as though he expects Dean to magically appear through it. Of course, this doesn’t happen.

When he finally drifts off to sleep, his mind is riddled with green eyes and soft lips and nervous smiles; and Castiel wakes up hard.

It reaches the early hours of the afternoon and it’s like bugs are crawling all over him with how restless Castiel feels. He gets hardly any work done. He barely speaks to Ezekiel at all, and doesn’t even notice that his roommate has gone, until—

“Well, then, what’s the problem?” He hears his roommate ask from outside the room, and in the next instant the door is swung open.

“—There isn’t one—” A nervous voice stammers. Castiel’s insides stand static for a moment. _Dean._ “—I just—”

“Then come _in,_ Dean.” Ezekiel groans, tugging the human through the door. Dean looks terrified, like he’s about to cry, he doesn’t even look at Castiel, he just stares desperately at Ezekiel.

“Ezekiel _please—”_

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Then _stay,_ and we can talk—”

“But—”

“Oh, c’mon, Cassie doesn’t mind,” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. Castiel’s eyes widen, his heart dropping into his stomach. Does Ezekiel _know?_ Has Dean told him? What did Dean say? What does he think about all that transpired last night? Suddenly his heart is hammering inside his chest, he can hardly breath, he—

“Do you, Cassie?” Ezekiel turns to face his roommate, and Castiel stares at him a moment, mouth agape, utterly perplexed.

“—Mind?” He stammers.

Ezekiel sighs as though he feels far two intelligent and busy to be dealing with either Dean or Castiel.

“Yes, mind. Do you mind if me and Dean stay and talk in here?”

“—I—” Castiel can barely form a sentence. “—I mean, you always do.” He manages to stutter out. “Why should now be any different?”

His question comes out wrong.

Now it sounds like a pointed blow in Dean’s direction; if Dean reads into it _at all—_ which he inevitably will—he’ll think that Castiel is implying that last night meant nothing to him; that nothing has changed—when if Castiel could have it his way, _everything_ would be different between them.

Dean’s face has fallen further.

“Yeah, Dean—why _should_ it be any different?” Ezekiel asks. Castiel cringes.

Dean’s gaze flutters towards Castiel, ashamed, terrified, but it does not reach him. He shakes his head once, looking utterly despondent, and attempts a shrug. It’s horribly forced and laced with some desperate sadness and desire to be a thousand miles from this place; and now Castiel is utterly lost and has _no idea_ of what to do.

“It—” Dean shakes his head again. “Of course—it isn’t any different—I just—”

“Great.” Ezekiel says shortly, sitting down on his bed. “And I’m sorry about not telling you about the party, last night—truth is, it wasn’t really a _party,_ there were only like five people there, only _one_ of them was a girl. It was for some guy who I have class with—he’s a bit of a nerd, really, but a nice enough guy—I mean, if someone’s doing physics, chances are they’re gonna be a nerd. The exception to that of course being me… Dean?” Ezekiel squints at Dean, still standing, still looking mortified. “Are you feeling alright?”

“—I’m—” The poor soul, Castiel realises, can hardly bring himself to configure a sentence in front of Castiel for fear of how the angel will react. He probably thinks Castiel _hates_ him again.

“Only you didn’t laugh at my joke,” Ezekiel grins, winking—but the gesture is a little forced and highlights the underlying worry in Ezekiel’s tone, “and that’s usually a pretty sure sign that you’re down. So, what’s up, buddy? And what did you get up to last night?” Dean swallows nervously, still apparently unable to look at Castiel. “And don’t you want to sit down?” He frowns at the human, still standing, who shifts awkwardly on his feet as though he’d rather run far, far away than sit anywhere in the room; and Dean nods, then shakes his head a moment, then blabbers out something utterly incoherent and Castiel sees despair sweep across his features.

“Are you worried about something?” Ezekiel asks, standing. He presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder and Castiel feels jealousy immediately flare up inside him; which is the _worst_ thing to feel right now and only proof of what a selfish prick he is—Dean looks like he’s about to _pass out_ and all Castiel can think about is how much he wants to have _his_ hand pressed to Dean’s shoulder. “You literally look like you’ve just been told you’ve got three hours to live, Dean,” The angel laughs, but his expression looks as nervous as Dean’s did upon arrival. “Dean?” He asks. “Is this a panic attack? What is this? Are you alright?”

“Sorry,” Dean shakes his head, letting Ezekiel guide him into sitting down. “—I—I’m fine—“

“You _really_ don’t look it, buddy,” Ezekiel shakes his head.

Castiel has sat up, now, and is staring at Dean worriedly— _he’s_ caused this, he knows he has; it’s Castiel’s fault Dean looks as though he’s about to throw up—and still, _still,_ Dean refuses to look at him.

“Dean?” Castiel finds himself asking, worriedly, and for the first time, Dean’s gaze snaps up to Castiel. The gesture has the angel rocking back slightly from where he sits, opposite Dean—and he knows he shouldn’t expect any confessions of eternal love and lust and feelings from the human sat on his roommates bed; but that doesn’t stop him from being utterly torn apart by Dean’s words when these confessions don’t arrive.

What Dean’s words actually _are_ instead don’t help, either.

“I’m fine,” The human shakes his head, “—Get off me, ‘Zeke, I’m _fine_ ,” He brushes Ezekiel off of him, who looks both hurt and taken aback. “It’s _this place_ that’s the problem; _I’m_ fine, it’s _here_ it’s—” He cuts himself off. “I said I didn’t want to hang out here.” He shakes his head, standing. “I _said,_ and you didn’t _listen_. Excuse me—I’m going back to my own dorm—” And he leaves, but not before—and Castiel’s heart breaks at this—mumbling a mortified, “ _—Sorry—”_ as he closes the door.

And Castiel stares at where Dean has just left; lost and confused and hurt. What now? What should he do?

Has he really ruined _everything_?

Castiel doesn’t know what to do if this is the case, but before he can think or worry any further—

“Castiel, what the _fuck_ is your problem?!” Ezekiel exclaims, hitting his roommate on the arm and snapping him out of his anxiety-ridden daze.

“Ow!” Castiel exclaims. “What was that for?! And what are you talking about?!”

“You!” Ezekiel hits Castiel, once more. “—Being a dick to Dean!”

“How am I—”

“Haven’t you seen how uncomfortable you make him?!” Ezekiel glares at Castiel. “Didn’t you see him just _now_?! There’s a reason he excused himself, Castiel, and it’s because of _you_ —”

Castiel huffs, infuriated by the injustice—and the truth—behind all that his roommate is saying.

“You don’t _understand_ —”

“No, I do.” Ezekiel’s face hardens. “A human likes you. Boo-fucking-hoo. How on earth will you ever cope, why you, why is your life so fucking hard, what can you possibly do to continue existing, etcetera, etcetera. I don’t know, Castiel, maybe you could try _growing the fuck up?_ How about that for a crazy fucking suggestion?!”

“Fuck _off_ , Ezekiel!” Castiel exclaims, pushing his roommate away.

“No!” Ezekiel shouts, batting Castiel again. “You’re ruining my friendship with Dean, and all because you can’t get over the fact that he’s a nice fucking person, who also _happens_ to be a human, and that he happens to have a crush on you!”

“I’m not ruining _anything_!”

“Things were awkward today, Cassie! Really fucking awkward! _Weird_ levels of awkward! Dean said that he came round last night, by the way—what the fuck did you _do_ to him to make him regress that far, again?! He looked like he thought he was gonna _die,_ Castiel—have you actually started _bullying_ him!? Well? What happened?!”

“ _Nothing_!” Castiel shouts.

“Well it sure as fuck doesn’t _look_ like nothing! I thought you and Dean were on okay terms after you took him to that protest, but apparently I was _very_ fucking wrong—”

Castiel shoves Ezekiel again, gets up, his vision blurred with red, and makes his way over to the door.

“Where the fuck are you going?!” Ezekiel shouts. The angel turns and glares at him.

“How about none of your _fucking_ business?” He bites, swinging the door open and slamming it behind him.

“Fuck!” He hisses through his teeth, pacing lividly up and down the deserted corridor outside his dorm.

Except it isn’t deserted.

Dean is stood there, utterly unaware of Castiel’s presence, banging his head against a wall and groaning loudly, muttering what sounds an awful lot like a slurred litany of profanities to himself. Castiel’s vision clears. The red disappears. His heart tugs inside of his chest. Twitches, pulls, pangs. His lips twitch upwards into an affectionate smile. More than affectionate. He feels warmth uncurl throughout his body, forcing him to take a step forward.

“You fucking idiot—” He hears Dean hiss, particularly loudly, his eyes pressed tightly shut as he punctuates each of his words with another whack of his head against the wall, and now Castiel thinks he can see tears on Dean’s face, and he also thinks absently that the human feels like _home_.

“Dean—” Castiel croaks, gazing at the human.

Dean scarce jumps out of his skin in fright, jolting away from the wall and straightening up, his face turning another mortified shade of maroon.

“Cas—” Dean stammers. His eyes are wide, terrified, mortified. “—I—” It’s as though Dean genuinely believes he can form some kind of excuse for any of this, and it’s hilarious and stupid and adorable and Castiel wants to press the human into him and laugh until he cries.

Castiel doesn’t give Dean the time to finish his sentence. He paces towards the human, closing the gap between them in mere seconds of determined striding; and frames Dean’s jaw in his hands, pulling the human towards him and kissing him, hard. Dean makes a surprised noise at the back of his throat, before relaxing into Castiel’s arms, his body going soft, tranquil against the angel’s, like he’s found his resting place—and it’s in Castiel’s arms. He makes another noise—this time, one of approval, and opens his mouth when Castiel presses his tongue to Dean’s lips. Castiel’s hand moves into Dean’s hair, Dean’s fingers curling into Castiel’s shirt slowly, and Dean still seems shocked and lost—and in a way, so is Castiel—but he doesn’t pull away and doesn’t radiate regret; only surprise and pleasure and bemusement.

Castiel pulls back, gasping, beaming, to see Dean’s face still flushed, his lips swollen and pink; but lifted up into what Castiel can only describe as the most endearingly bashful grin he’s ever witnessed.

“I, uh—” Castiel stammers. “—I was wondering if you’d ever want to get coffee. Or dinner. Or watch a movie. Or _anything._ But, uh—like a date. A date, with me.”

“A date?” Dean repeats, still grinning.

“A date.” Castiel nods. He feels his face heat.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, beaming. “I’d love that.”

“Cool. Which one?” Castiel asks, still panting slightly.

“What?”

“Which of the above?” Castiel asks. “Or something different? – You decide, I mean—”

“Can you kiss me again?” Dean interrupts, and Castiel stops speaking and smiles and in the next moment has tugged Dean toward him and is kissing him again, and he pulls back and Dean is maroon once more. “This isn’t a joke?” He looks suddenly worried. Castiel is still breathing heavily.

“A joke?” The angel frowns. “Why would I—”

Dean looks embarrassed.

“It’s—I’m sorry for being weird, Dean—” He stammers. “It’s not a joke. Not at all. I—I’m sorry for how I did things last night. That—that wasn’t fair—but I’d like to take you out, if you’re okay with that. Somewhere nice, somewhere where I can apologise some more, somewhere where I can kiss you properly, and I—” He cuts himself off. “Is that okay?”

“That’s—” Dean looks positively radiant. “That’s okay.” He nods. “That’s wonderful.” He amends. “Brilliant, even.”

“Can we make it now?” Castiel asks, before thinking. Dean beams. “Immediately? Have you had lunch? Would you like to watch a movie?”

“I haven’t eaten—” Dean shakes his head. “—And—”

“So that would be good?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “It’d be—great.”

“Okay?” Castiel finds himself beaming.

“Okay.”

Castiel kisses Dean again. The human looks like he doesn’t know how to respond. Castiel feels like he’s found his home.


	10. Early Spring

 

“So,” Dean worries at his lip.

They had decided on lunch in a diner.

“So…” Castiel repeats.

For a place so bright and welcoming, this is agonisingly uncomfortable.

Conversation ran completely dry around the time they entered; there’s only so many times it could be considered acceptable for Dean to blush and giggle at absolutely nothing or comment on the weather outside or décor inside without appearing to be an absolute fucking idiot.

_“Fuck, this is awkward.”_

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit at Castiel’s comment, muttered out worriedly from the angel’s lips as he stares helplessly at the table rather than at Dean.

Terrible though it is to hear, it’s definitely true.

This is a mistake, oh fuck, it’s such a fucking mistake. Shit, fuck it, fuck everything.

“You probably didn’t mean to say that out loud, huh?” Dean asks. He smiles despite himself, though it’s self-deprecating and helpless, because Cas essentially just admitted he’d rather not be here, that this is uncomfortable and unenjoyable and awful; and it really fucking hurts.

“I said it out loud?” Castiel asks, his face flushing immediately. Holy shit, the guy looks devastated.

“Yeah.” Dean nods, grinning as he shakes his head, staring at the table instead of Castiel. He pushes at some spilled salt granules on the table with the pad of his forefinger. His face is heating. This whole thing is a mistake. Why did he think it would be a good idea? Dean and Castiel haven’t had a decent sober conversation since the _protest,_ which was _months_ ago; the last good conversation they had they had both been drinking and they ended up kissing, which as it turns out was another _massive fucking mistake._

“I’m sorry—”

“Eh, it’s fine.” Dean shrugs. “I was thinking it, too.”

“You were?” Castiel asks, looking more anxious than ever. The line forming between his eyebrows and their hopeless, diagonal slope almost has Dean laughing with affection.

“You look worried.” The human observes.

“Is it bad that I am?” Castiel frowns. “You just said you thought it was awkward.”

“You said it first, Cas.” Dean reminds, laughing despite himself. There’s not much else left to do, in any case. “And anyway, don’t worry about it. I’ve has some truly shitty dates, so a couple of awkward silences come nowhere near.”

“Really?” Castiel raises his eyebrows. “I bet you anything I’ve had worse.”

 _Unlikely,_ Dean thinks to himself, thoughts turning ugly.

“I doubt it.” He shakes his head.

“One time, I went on a date with someone who spent the entire time talking about Gossip Girl. Like, the whole time.”

“The TV show?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” Castiel nods.

“Have you ever watched it?”

“Never ever.” Castiel shakes his head. “And then they thought it was a good time to start re-enacting their A Capella band’s best covers, only in the form of a solo.”

“And this was in public?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Painfully public.” Castiel winces at the memory. Dean laughs, rubbing his jaw. “In front of an entire restaurant.”

“Okay, that’s pretty shit—”

“No, it gets worse.” Castiel shakes his head. “Then, _I_ had to pay.”

Dean snorts.

“Wow, Cas, way to overreact.”

“You think I’m overreacting?” Castiel scoffs.

“ _So_ badly.” Dean shakes his head. “It’s like you’re a freakin’ _child_. You’re so fucking childish.”

The angel scowls at this criticism.

“Don’t pull that face—” Dean laughs. “—You know what I meant—”

“So you have something better lined up?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“If by better, you mean a billion times worse, then yeah.” Dean nods. “I’ve seen way worse.”

“Go on, then.” A stubborn, competitive edge has taken hold of Castiel’s voice, and Dean cannot help but find it amusing.

He could drop a total fucking bombshell right now and tell Castiel that one of the last dates he went on with a guy ended up with him getting beat up in the dude’s apartment and nearly dying—and it’s almost funny for Dean to think about the way the angel would react; eyes widening to the point of ridiculousness, mouth comically dropping open… But then, Dean thinks, he only ever thinks of people’s potential reactions as being funny to cover up the fact that Dean’s past is really fucked up; that thinking about this kind of shit makes him want to cry, that if _anyone_ outside of his family and Ezekiel knew about his past, he’d probably die of shame and self-loathing.

He settles for a relatively tame date out of his cornucopia of shitty experiences.

“Okay, so bear in mind that this is my first date, _ever_ , and that I’m kind of a nervous person in general—”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Castiel snorts. Dean wants to pull a face, but Castiel’s expression is so warm and bemused right now that his mind kind of draws an utter, misty blank. The angel is resting his chin on his closed fist, staring at Dean with his lips hardly twitched up into a smile, looking across at the human through his eyelashes. Dean’s head is spinning.

“—So yeah,” He stammers, attempting to continue, “this guy invited me to the movies and dinner beforehand.”

“That sounds _nice_ , Dean.”

“Wait, wait, I haven’t finished yet. So this guy took me to a freakin’ _gas station_ for dinner—”

“No.” Castiel’s mouth has fallen open, his hand has opened and has fallen to the table with a gentle, disbelieving thump.

“Yes.” Dean grins, laughing.

“Fuck.” The angel shakes his head, looking away. The guy is the perfect audience for telling stories to, Dean thinks happily; his reactions are so perfectly timed and overstated to just the right degree. It warms Dean’s heart with affection and crude joy to observe.

“That’s not all.” Dean shakes his head. “So, then, he buys beef jerky. Just, lots and lots of it. It was really fucking weird. And I don’t really want anything, ‘cause I’ve kind of lost my appetite by this point, ‘cause I’m kind of disgusted and confused—”

“—Understandable.”

“Right? And I’m also a bit creeped out by the guy, but I decide to overlook it, thinking ‘hey, maybe he’s just a bit odd’. But I can deal with odd. I pride myself on being able to deal with odd. I’m cool with odd. We’re all kind of odd. Maybe he thinks _I’m_ kind of odd. So I stay.”

Castiel can’t stop himself laughing. Dean feels delight burst through him in a warm amber flame.

“And then he takes me to the movie. Except he really pointedly makes me pay for my own ticket—which I normally wouldn’t mind—but he was seriously passive aggressive about the whole thing, you know?”

“What a dick.”

“Yeah, absolute asshole.” Dean agrees, rolling his eyes at the memory. “Anyway, throughout the whole film he’s talking through the dialogue; telling me that my plans for the future are shit, that my life’s gonna be a downward spiral if I carry on on that trajectory—apparently there’s no future in art or architecture and I’m not smart enough to get into it anyway;” Dean squeezes his thumb as he retells this part of the story, because honestly, it still hurts, “— _and_ he kept on tryin’ to cop a feel. Of my crotch. In the cinema. Without my permission. Like, what the hell.”

“Woah.” Castiel frowns.

“I’m not even done.”

“There _can’t_ be more.” Castiel shakes his head. His face has fallen with disbelief and disgust.

“There really is.” Dean rolls his eyes. “ _Fuck_ , it was such a bad date.”

“It really sounds as though it was.” Castiel agrees. “What else happened?”

“Then, he asks me if I’d go give him head in the men’s bathroom.”

“He didn’t.” Castiel’s eyes widen to the point they look as though they’re about to pop out of their sockets and roll onto the table between the pair.

“He did.” Dean replies. “He asked for a blowjob. Mid-movie. In the men’s bathroom.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dean shakes his head, sighing resignedly. “Anyway, I’m like, ‘ew, what the fuck?’; and he goes, ‘alright, what about _after_ the movie?’”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Dean confirms. “So I tell him no, again, and he’s like; ‘well, there’s no point in me staying then, is there?’ and leaves. In the middle of the movie. All ‘cause I won’t suck his dick in the cubicle of a public restroom.”

“Bastard.” Castiel laughs.

“Absolute dick head.” Dean agrees. “So, I win?”

“You win.” Castiel concedes, chuckling. “Without a doubt. Holy shit, without a doubt.”

Dean beams triumphantly.

“And that’s probably not even my worst.”

“No way.”

“Yes, way.” Dean replies truthfully. “And see, things aren’t so awkward anymore, are they?” He points out, smiling “We’ve found something to talk about. Broken the ice.”

Castiel’s eyes crinkle at their corners.

“I guess you’re right.” He nods.

“Damn straight I am.” Dean grins. “So, Cas—and don’t pull a face, ‘cause you must have expected me to ask this, at some point—what the fuck happened on that corridor, outside your room? What was that all about? And what made you want to ask me out? You get why I’m confused—still—right?”

Castiel groans and rubs his face. Dean barks out a laugh—but before either of them can do anything else, a waitress arrives and asks to take their order. Both of them get a burger, fries and a milkshake. When she leaves, Dean grins across the table at Castiel.

“Go on.” He smirks.

“Ah, fuck.” Castiel sighs. “I was kind of hoping you’d have forgotten.”

“I’m not that easily distracted by food, Cas.” Dean laughs. “Come on, give me at least _some_ credit.”

“Alright,” Castiel groans, his wings twitching as he grows obviously uncomfortable. “I’ve liked you for a while, now. That’s the honest answer—and the simplest one. I’ve liked you for a long while; and I’ve tried to deny it ‘cause you’re a human, and I’ve tried to make peace with it ‘cause you’re a nice one—well, you’re obviously more than that. You’re great.” Dean blushes at the angel’s words. “More than great. Anyway.” He shakes his head distractedly. “I tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away; but the problem is, Dean, every time you blushed that deep red or stammered out an awkward response to the simplest of questions or comments, I’d be reminded of the fact that you so clearly liked me, and I’d be forced to acknowledge that that fact overjoyed me. It was fucking awful.”

Dean laughs, his cheeks pink.

“And then, acknowledging that it overjoyed me meant acknowledging that I liked you _too_. A _lot_.” Castiel sighs.

“That must have sucked a lot for you.” Dean replies, somewhat drolly.

“Piss off.” Castiel rolls his eyes at Dean’s teasing smirk. “Anyway, the point is, me asking you out wasn’t a sudden, chance thing. It wasn’t after forethought and planning, for sure, but it wasn’t something I did on a whim. I’ve liked you—a lot—for a while.”

“How long, exactly?” Dean grins. “And how much?”

“I’m not gonna answer that.” Castiel laughs.

“That’s not fair!”

“How does that follow?” The angel frowns.

“Well, you know pretty fucking clearly, apparently, that I’ve liked you since day one.”

“That’s not my fault.” Castiel shrugs. “You just made it painfully obvious.”

“You’re a dick.” Dean rolls his eyes, laughing.

“You’re much less shy when you’re on a date.”

“Well, first of all, that was uncalled for.”

“It was an observation.”

“And second of all,” Dean pulls a mock exasperated face, ignoring Castiel’s comment, “now that I know that you like me, too, I can relax a little.”

“I think I like it when you’re relaxed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like that you’re comfortable around me, now.” Castiel smiles. “You are comfortable, right?” He frowns suddenly.

“Very.” Dean laughs, his expression softening. “That and the fact that I’m in a diner. I really come into my own when food is involved.”

“God, you’re such a dork.” Castiel bursts out laughing.

“But you _like_ like me, Castiel.” Dean beams. “So it doesn’t matter how dorky I act.”

“True. But only because I find it so very endearing when you’re awkward.”

“So the joke’s on me, huh?” Dean raises his eyebrows, chuckling.

“Pretty much.”

“I should probably feel embarrassed.”

“If you didn’t already.” Castiel smirks softly.

Their food arrives.

“You still haven’t really answered my question, you know.”

“I haven’t?”

“Why did you just come up to me and kiss me? Why the sudden change of heart?”

“I suppose you could say that Ezekiel unknowingly gave me a push in the right direction.”

“Unknowingly?”

“That’s right.” Castiel confirms. “And I kind of explained, right after, didn’t I? I wished that I’d kissed you again, last night, I wished that I’d asked you to stay, I wished I’d told you how I felt, right then and there—but even _drunk_ me was too scared to do it.”

“And how _do_ you feel?” Dean asks. He can’t help the nervous, smug smile that stretches itself across his features.

Castiel groans again and rubs his face.

“Are you just asking me this simply so you can watch me kick myself internally?”

“It’s for a whole bucketload of reasons, Cas. Let’s not limit it by just assigning it just _one_.”

“Well, I’ve already answered one question that made me uncomfortable. Now you have to do the same.”

“I thought you liked seeing me feeling more comfortable around you?”

“Give a little, take a little, Dean.” Castiel shrugs. “Anyway, I may enjoy seeing you comfortable around me, but I still find it adorable whenever you’re embarrassed.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Dean rolls his eyes, laughing. “Alright, what’s your question?”

“Why on earth were you banging your head against the wall—especially so violently—when I came out onto the corridor?”

“Oh, fuck. Isn’t it obvious?” Dean laughs.

“No.” Castiel frowns. “No even moderately so.”

“I was kicking myself; ‘cause I thought I’d fucked up the sort-of-friendship that we’d had going; I thought you regretted us kissing; I kept on telling myself that I’d made a mistake—several, in fact—that I should have done something _more_ —”

 _“I_ kissed _you_.” Castiel frowns. “Why would you be berating yourself for that?”

“Cas, I blame myself for everything.” Dean laughs, rubbing his jaw, his expression and voice droll and self-deprecating.

“I’ve noticed.” Castiel frowns.

“You do the same.” Dean states, a little defensively.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “I take _responsibility_ for everything.”

“Sounds the same to me.”

“Maybe we’re more similar than either of us realised.”

“Maybe.” Dean hums, smiling.

Castiel’s knee brushes against Dean’s underneath the table. Dean is staring at his burger, beaming at Castiel’s touch. His eyes flick up to meet with Castiel’s, and the flush returns to his cheeks. Wow. Shit. Dean can hardly believe any of this is happening. He’s still sure he’s gonna wake up at any moment; alone in his bed, and all of this will have been some gorgeous fantasy of his.

“I’ve never met anyone who blushes quite as lovely as you.” Castiel says, expression as soft as moonlight on winter’s night. Dean flushes further at the angel’s look and words.

“You saying that only makes it worse, you know.” He points out, both embarrassed and delighted.

“I’ve noticed.” Castiel hums. His eyes crinkle softly at their corners, though his lips hardly twitch upwards at all: the smile is almost invisible. “But it’s true. It’s quite charming.”

“I’m glad you find my embarrassment so endearing.” Dean rolls his eyes, about to run his hand through his hair—but Castiel catches Dean’s hand in his own in the next moment and the human freezes completely, swallowing hard as he looks up to stare, intently, at Castiel again.

“Very endearing.” Castiel smile is soft and hardly there at all, but something about it contains more affection than Dean could ever have dreamed the angel would feel for him. Dean’s ears have heated to the delighted temperature of the sun. Is he just lying to himself? Is this just a normal smile from the angel, holding no more affection than it would for any of his other friends? “How do you think Ezekiel will deal with the two of us dating?” He asks. Dean’s flush turns into a soft smirk.

“Wow, I have no idea.” He chuckles. “You really think he had no idea that you liked me?”

“None at all.” Castiel shakes his head. “He knew about your crush on me, certainly, but then it was sort of hard _not_ to—”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean groans. Castiel laughs and squeezes the human’s hand.

“You’re perfect.” He chuckles. His voice and expression are so honest that for a moment Dean’s heart simultaneously aches and settles into his chest and he actually _believes_ the angel.

“—I’m not—” Dean stammers.

“You are.” Castiel shakes his head. “And maybe that’s bad of me to say, on our first date. But you really are, and I’m not in the habit of watering down my words when it comes to this kind of thing.”

“Bad?” Dean asks dumbly.

“Too forward.”

“I’m fine with you being forward.” Dean croaks.

“Well then,” Castiel laughs, “you’re perfect.” He repeats.

“No, you.” Dean grins bashfully, shaking his head.

“You’re going to have to come round to my dorm a lot more often, I can tell.” Castiel grins.

“Is that you saying that we’re gonna be going on a lot of other dates, now?”

“It definitely is.” Castiel beams. “That is, if you want to, as well.”

“Of course I want to, Cas.” Dean’s whole frame is thrumming with sweetened joy.

“Brilliant.” Castiel hums happily. “So you’re saying it’s going well?”

“Of course it’s going well.” Dean laughs. “You think so too, right?” He raises his eyebrows at Castiel, threads of worry suddenly twisting sharply through him.

“I think it’s going just great, Dean.”

“That’s a relief.”

Castiel chuckles softly and squeezes Dean’s fingers.

“So,” He hums, “you’ll be coming round to mine a lot more, then?”

“I will.” Dean confirms. “And you could come round to mine.” He laughs. “I mean, if you wanted to—”

“Of course I’d like to.” Castiel chuckles. His thumb brushes across Dean’s knuckles.

“Oh,” Dean smiles, relieved. “Good.”

“Good.” Castiel agrees, humming the word lightly. His eyes crinkle at their corners. “I look forward to it.”

“How’s your food?” Dean asks, blushing furiously at the angel’s words.

“Good, thank you.” The angel smiles, glancing down at his plate. “What about you?”

“Yeah, it’s great,” Dean grins. “Nowhere near as good as my Aunt Ellen’s cooking, though.”

“Oh?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human, smiling softly.

“Yeah, she can cook _amazingly._ Best chef in the world.” Dean’s heart is warmed by the thought.

“What’s your favourite dish of hers?”

“Wow, I actually really don’t know. She used to be a waitress, then a chef in a diner. Now she runs her own restaurant. It’s really good—she does really good classics, like burgers and stuff, because of that—but her _pies,_ wow—yeah—her pies are my favourite. Pies are my favourite food—and _hers—”_

Castiel has started beaming uncontrollably.

“Don’t make fun of me.” Dean frowns suddenly, but Castiel’s smile only grows.

“I’m not,” He shakes his head, expression genuine. “I’m thinking about how much I want to kiss you.”

Dean’s mouth becomes suddenly dry and his tongue feels like the top layer of soil on a hot day.

“You—”

“You really shouldn’t be so surprised, Dean,” Castiel chortles gently, eyes soft and bright with amusement. “I’m fairly certain that I already _have_ kissed you, so—”

“—Cas, don’t try and be fucking smart—”

“I like it when you call me Cas.” The angel beams. He looks at Dean through his eyelashes.

“—You’re just trying to embarrass me—” Dean flushes, ducking his head, but Castiel’s fingers graze underneath Dean’s chin and tilt the human’s face up.

“Only a little.” He says softly. The smile extends only to his lips, now, his eyes are filled with something else. Something not unpleasant, but something that Dean has never seen before and he desperately wants to look away, but it’s like Castiel’s gaze is magnetic and Dean is made out of thousands of tiny shards of iron; all he can do is stare back at the angel and know that he is being quickly, surely drawn to him.

“Then what else are you trying to do?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a murmur. Castiel stares intently at the human, expression betraying nothing other than a deep, passionate interest so intense that it could be mistaken for confusion.

“I’m trying to figure you out, Dean.” The angel says softly.

“I’m not a puzzle.” Dean frowns indignantly. Castiel merely raises his eyebrows at Dean with soft bemusement.

“No?” He asks, tone light enough to send pinpricks scattering along Dean’s skin. “Then I’m trying to flatter you.”

“Flatter me?” Dean repeats, breath catching in his throat, because his chin is still caught between Castiel’s thumb and forefinger.

“And be honest.”

“Can you be trying to flatter someone and be trying to be honest at the same time?” Dean frowns quizzically at the angel.

“I think you can…” The angel hums softly.

“And why are you trying to flatter me?” Dean asks.

“Because I want to kiss you.” Castiel laughs again, tone honest.

“If you want to, that badly,” Dean stammers out cautiously, “…you definitely can. I’d be totally up for that, I mean…”

Castiel has in the next instant began to rise slightly from his seat, leaning forward; the movement fluid and gentle and utterly enchanting; as though Castiel is a river and Dean is the sea, its ultimate destination. The angel grazes his nose against Dean’s and then kisses him, long and deep and soft, before pulling back. It’s so perfect that Dean is honestly a little frightened, and he wonders if Castiel is as well; if Castiel cares as deeply for Dean as Dean does for Castiel—but he isn’t allowed to wonder for very much longer, because the angel’s thumb grazes under his jaw and he murmurs something softly that Dean doesn’t quite catch.

“Sorry, what was that?” Dean asks, shaking his head slightly. Castiel lets out a warm laugh that sounds like honey running over gravel.

“I asked if that was okay,” Castiel’s eyes crinkle at their corners. “Were you okay with that?”

Dean is honestly utterly touched that Castiel would even _think_ to ask him.

“That was fine,” Dean chokes. “That was great.”

Castiel laughs again and leans forward to place a delicate kiss on Dean’s forehead.

This can’t be real; Dean feels like a fucking child on a first date in middle school—but it _is_ real, and Castiel sits down again and beams at Dean from across the table and takes Dean’s hand in his own and squeezes it gently.

“You’re brilliant, Dean.” He laughs softly.

“I don’t know,” Dean blushes, ducking his head. His hand is squeezed again.

“You were talking about pies being your favourite food.” Castiel beams. “And I think I interrupted you. Carry on.”

“I don’t think there’s much to carry on from.” Dean admits honestly. “That’s all I was gonna say. I just like them.”

“They are very tasty.” Castiel’s lips twitch up in amusement.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “but it’s not just that. You know how when you eat a food, it’s not just the taste or the smell or the texture that matters; but the _memory_ of you eating it—like when and where it was, how you felt, how old you were—and then when you smell or taste or bite into it, all that stuff of the first time you ate it or the last time you ate it or the most special time you ate it or how you felt or what the occasion was or who made it, all of it comes flooding back to you? Does this make any sense? I know I’m totally rambling, but like, do you ever get all that stuff?”

Castiel positively beams.

“Yes, I get it.”

“Well, pie always makes me think of happy times. Or, if not happy, then bittersweet. And they’ve always been used to remind me that I’m loved, and I don’t know—” Dean glances down at the table instead of Castiel’s face. “That matters to me.”

“That’s very understandable,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “Of course it matters.” There is a pause. “What do pies make you think of, in particular?”

Dean shrugs, face red.

“I don’t know,” He persists in refusing to look up. “Ellen. My mom. Me first learning how to cook. Me being a kid—and whenever I was sad—” Dean cuts himself off. “Shit, this is probably _way_ too deep for a first date.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’m sorry—”

“I think it’s fine,” Castiel shakes his head, the soft line of a frown forming on his forehead. “But if you feel uncomfortable in discussing it, then we can move on.”

Dean thinks he mutters out a thanks.

“Anyway, your favourite food is pie?” Castiel’s eyes are soft as he speaks. “I think mine would be burgers.”

“Burgers?” Dean finds himself smiling.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, giving Dean a confused though warm look. “You seem surprised?”

“I don’t know,” Dean laughs, shrugging. “I guess I was expecting something a little more pretentious.” He admits, shaking his head. “Burgers? Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Castiel confirms again. He giggles slightly. “You’re really shocked?”

“They’re just so—down to earth, I don’t know.” Dean grins, rubbing the back of his neck.

“And I’m not?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human.

“I never said that.” Dean shakes his head quickly.

“It’s true that I can be a little pretentious,” Castiel admits, looking down with a slight smile etched across his features. “—Ezekiel points that out rather a lot. But burgers are just nice, why should I justify them through pomp? I do that with literature and music and I understand that it’s frustrating, but food is just _food._ And burgers make me…” He pauses. “…Very happy.”

“Right.” Dean snorts.

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I am, yes.” Dean confirms.

“Why?”

“Because you’re really fucking strange.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been so rude to me.”

“Or so honest.”

“I don’t know if I’m enjoying it.” Castiel frowns thoughtfully. Dean smirks.

“You know what’s weird?” Dean asks.

“What?” Castiel replies.

“The fact that you’re not a vegetarian.” Dean grins. “Burgers are your favourite food, and you’re not a vegetarian, and I would’ve really expected you to be a _vegan,_ and you’re not. It’s so fucking weird.”

“I know.” Castiel presses his lips together guiltily. “I really should be, as well—a vegetarian, that is. At the very least, actually—eating animal products is _so_ unsustainable, and the meat industry is _so_ unethical—and in regards to the exploitation of workers, meat produce is maybe one of the worst—”

Dean has started beaming.

“What?” Castiel frowns.

“Everything you do, you always think about the politics of it, don’t you?”

“Well,” Castiel sighs, “yes. But is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all.” Dean shakes his head. “I think it’s cool. I wish I was _more_ political, I’m just kind of—unaware, I don’t know—about a lot of stuff. And I guess that’s ‘cause I can afford to be, you know? It’s easier not to think about politics all the time if you don’t actually need to.”

Castiel nods thoughtfully.

“It’s good that you recognise that.”

“I guess, but it’s better to actually _be_ political.”

“People tend to find it annoying, actually.” Castiel admits, rather sheepishly.

“People suck.” Dean grins. Castiel snorts.

“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Of course,” Dean laughs, “is it working?”

“Brilliantly.” The angel rolls his eyes.

“Good.”

“Are you really having a good time?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows suddenly, worry winding softly around his features in an anxious embrace.

“I’m having a great time.” Dean admits, face growing a little hot by the honesty of his own words. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards despite himself.

“Phew.” He huffs out, looking down. “That’s good. Me too.”

“I’m glad.” Dean lets out a soft chuckle. “You know, I think today is the most nervous I’ve ever seen you.”

“It probably is.” Castiel admits. “And that’s not surprising at all.”

“Why _are_ you so nervous?”

“Because I like you,” The angel frowns as though this ought to be obvious. “And I haven’t been at all honest with you about that, until now—and suddenly I am being honest—and that’s really scary in itself—and I _really_ want you to be having a good time.”

“That’s cute,” Dean’s lips play upwards. “And I’ve already told you that I definitely am. So why worry?”

“I worry a lot.”

“I think you actually told me that last night.”

“And I pointed out that you do the same.”

“Yeah.”

“And then I said we made a good match,” Castiel’s eyes spark with something else now. “—No, that was when you said I made you laugh, and I said you made me laugh, too. _Then_ I said I thought we must be a good match.”

“…Yeah…” Dean is certain his face is turning pink.

“And I think you got embarrassed?”

“I got worried.” Dean admits, looking down.

“Oh,” Castiel frowns softly. “Why was that?”

“I thought—I don’t know, Cas,” Dean sighs. “—Like, I’d spent so long being convinced you _hated_ me—and sometimes I’d think, ‘no, maybe he doesn’t; he’s called you his friend, etcetera etcetera’—but like, it was _weird_ that night. After all that, you were being so kind and apologetic and then you got drunk and you _kissed_ me; and suddenly it dawned on me that it was probably a mistake and that by morning you’d regret it and hate me more than ever, and…” Dean sighs. “And then you said the _I think we make a good match_ line, and it made me hate myself and worry about the next day even more. So I left, before anything else could happen.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel that way.” Castiel says softly, after a moment’s pause. “I realise, upon reflection, that I’ve behaved rather manipulatively toward you—though not intentionally—but I really have been a next-level prick; and I worry that you’ve already had more than enough encounters with that kind of person—and I’m awfully sorry, Dean. That’s all I really _can_ say. There’s no way I can make any of this up to you. I’ve slightly… fucked you over, really—you so clearly liked me for so long and I somehow managed to string you along whilst simultaneously behaving like an absolute dirt bag towards you.”

“I don’t think you did any of that deliberately.” Dean frowns.

“No, not at all.” Castiel shakes his head. “But I should have made my mind up, shouldn’t I? It’s not fair to keep someone hanging on like that—if I’d decided to be a prick to you, I should have said to your face that it was because you were a human and we had no chance of ever… Being anything. And if I’d decided to be honest with myself and you, then I should have told you right away that I liked you, too—but instead I fucked up and did this kind of…” He trails off. “…Combination of the two. Which left you hanging on and feeling very confused for a very long time.”

“…Yeah…” Dean agrees awkwardly. “…That pretty much sums it up…”

“And it was mean of me.” Castiel says certainly.

“No,” Dean frowns. “Not _mean—”_

“ _I_ was mean. And you didn’t deserve to be treated that way, and—” He lets out an ugly, frustrated sigh, rubbing his face suddenly. “I feel so bad about all of it, you know? And I can’t ever make up for it. I _ruined_ your first couple of semesters—”

“Hey, I had a _great_ first semester.” Dean corrects. “Best time ever. I was always going to worry about shit, whatever it was, whatever happened. You’re not to blame for that. That’s something else. That’s just—me. Anyway, I worry, I still had a great time here, and this semester is looking to be even _better.”_

Castiel smiles and ducks his head.

“I’m not very used to seeing you acting embarrassed, Cas,” Dean admits, expression turning warm. “It’s a big change from what I usually get.”

“I’m mortified about the way that I’ve treated you,” Castiel admits. “Especially when drunk. It was one of those things where I’d say something, and wouldn’t even realise how offensive I’d been until I looked at the hurt on your face—or I’d feel bitter about the fact I didn’t have the guts to tell you how I felt; and I’d see someone else be braver than me and be kissing you or whatever, and I’d be unbelievably jealous. It was so unhealthy of me—”

“Well, it’s not like that anymore.” Dean points out. “And you’d always apologise afterwards—”

“But then I’d do it again,” Castiel replies. “And that makes it _worse—”_

“But now I understand why you did it.”

“But the point is my reasons for being a prick weren’t good at all.”

“You were worried that I was going to turn out to be a racist asshole.” Dean frowns. “That’s fair—especially considering your past experience. Why should I feel sorry for myself because of that?”

“That was the initial reason, yes,” Castiel admits, “but then it stopped being about that. And it started being about me keeping up pretences—why be horrible to someone for the sake of façade?!—and out of jealousy. That’s toxic. That’s disgusting—”

“It’s also pretty natural.” Dean shrugs.

Castiel sighs and looks at the table.

“I wish you’d stop being so nice about all of this.” He confesses quietly.

“And what? Be an asshole to you instead? To make up for the balance of assholeness? Like karma?”

“Yes, pretty much.” Castiel looks back up at him.

“Well, too bad, Cas,” Dean shrugs again. “I’m not going to sit in a diner and hurl abuse at you on a date. That’s not what I do. As a rule, I don’t hurl abuse at _anyone.”_

“I wish you would.” Castiel groans. “I deserve abuse.”

“I disagree completely.” Dean shakes his head. “Holy shit, you’re really big on self-deprecation, aren’t you?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Hey, I’m aware of the fact that I hate myself.”

“And I hate the fact that you hate yourself.”

“And that unfortunately doesn’t make it any better.”

“I’ll just have to care about you even harder than you hate yourself, won’t I?”

Dean laughs and looks away.

“That’ll be a real challenge, Cas…”

“And in the meantime, teach you self-love.”

“Just now you didn’t seem like too much of an expert on that.” Dean frowns softly.

“We’re all learning it.” Castiel replies. “And it’s okay to have bad days.”

“This has been a pretty intense conversation for a first date.” Dean points out, only half-jokingly.

“I enjoy talking to you.” Castiel replies honestly. “I’ve found it cathartic. And I wish I talked to you more. I feel as though I’ve wasted a lot of time in _not_ speaking with you as often as I would have liked.”

“And it’s still getting deeper.” Dean smirks. Castiel apparently chooses to ignore his teasing comment.

“And when we get to talking, it’s all very easy. So.”

“So?”

“So I want to do it more than I do now. I want to spend the nights that I’m drunk talking to you, I want to get stoned and talk to you about the universe—”

“That’s gotta be the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me—”

“—Shut up—” Castiel tries to brush him off.

“—Wait, I thought you just said you wanted me to talk—”

Castiel pulls Dean’s hand towards him and presses a kiss to the human’s knuckles. Dean is stunned into silence. Though Castiel’s expression remains unchanged, something in his eyes betrays the triumph he feels at this.

“I want to share pillow talk with you,” The angel continues, “I want to spend nights out late talking to you under the stars, I want to spend hours talking to you over the phone when you’re away, I want to talk about what you think about dogs and colours and books and music and what happens when we die, about us and where you want us to go and what you want to do tomorrow morning and the morning after that and the morning after that and…” Castiel trails off. “Your voice is music; I want to listen to it forever. I enjoy talking to you. That’s not going to change.” Silence. “Deep enough for you?” The angel raises his eyebrows at Dean from across the table and Dean has to break the gaze for a moment.

“You’re pretty fucking intense, Cas…”

“Is intense bad?”

“No,” Dean admits, blushing. His neck feels hot. “I’m really enjoying it. I just…”

“You’re used to joking about everything.”

“Pretty much.” Dean nods sheepishly.

“So we counteract each other pretty well.” The angel’s lips twitch upwards.

“I’d say so.” Dean nods, breathless.

“So I was right when I said we made a pretty good match.” The angel smirks triumphantly.

“Uh—” Dean stammers. “—I hope so, yeah.”

Castiel smiles again.

“Are you finished with your food?” He asks, gesturing down to Dean’s plate. Dean glances down. He feels giddy.

“Um—yeah. Yeah I am.” He nods. “Are you?”

“I am indeed.” Castiel confirms. “Ready to leave?”

“We need to pay—”

“I’m aware of that, Dean.” Castiel chuckles softly. Dean flushes with red and looks away, stammering out something incoherent, but Castiel takes his hand once more and squeezes it softly. “Should I pay?” He asks.

“Oh no—thank you, but we could just split it—”

“I’m not going to insist, though I really would like to.” Castiel chuckles. “If for nothing else, then for you being so understanding about me being so _useless_ at asking you out.”

Dean’s lips twitch shyly upwards.

“And in the hope that you haven’t had too much of a shitty date.” The angel jokes. “I’d hate to add to that already long list.”

Dean laughs despite himself, though he still feels uneasy—he knows what guys tend to expect when they’ve paid for a meal with someone—and it’s not that Dean doesn’t want to do that with Castiel, it’s just that he’s worried he won’t have a _choice…_

But wait, this is _Cas._ Why should Dean worry? Why does Dean _need_ to worry? He’s not like Alastair, who expected Dean to bend over at a command, no matter what, no matter… Dean drags himself away from this thought before it can morph into anything uglier and he ends up having a panic attack in the middle of a diner.

But Cas isn’t even like Gadreel, who would assume sex was a means to an end for Dean; just something he did to get drink or drugs—Cas knows what sex with him would _mean_ to Dean, and if Dean explained past experiences—

And then that’s something else. _Could_ Dean ever explain to Cas? Could he get away with not? And just ride out the excuse that he gets a little bit weird and worried sometimes when it comes to fucking people, to doing certain things; that there’s no _real_ reason behind it; that the panicked breaths and wide, worried eyes are really nothing for Castiel to concern himself with… Well, that’s what he said to Gadreel, and it sort of worked, but Dean never intended for Gadreel to be a long term thing, and with _Cas—_

“Dean?” Castiel asks gently. “I said I wouldn’t insist.” It’s like he can read his thoughts. “But I _would_ like to pay for you, as a show of affection, to be kind, to get some good karma, to reconcile some past shitty acts, to save you money, to make you happy. Pick any of the above. And not for any other reason. Honest to god.”

It’s _really_ like Castiel can read his mind.

“Not for any other reason?” Dean asks uncertainly. “Not for—”

“ _Anything_ else.” Castiel reassures. Dean almost wants to cry, but with what? Relief? “Is that okay?”

“Thank you—” Dean ducks his head. Castiel shrugs it off and squeezes Dean’s hand again.

“So it’s been a good date?” He asks when he’s paid.

“—Yeah.” Dean nods quickly. “Really nice. Lovely.”

“Not too awkward?” The angel raises his eyebrows in soft amusement at Dean, whose lips twitch upwards.

“Just the right amount of awkward.” He answers. Castiel laughs and bumps shoulders with Dean as they walk out, slipping his hand into the human’s.

“I’m glad.” He nods. “Would you like to walk through the park for a bit, in that case? Just to make it last a little longer?”

“Sure.” Dean confirms, smiling widely. “That sounds great.”

About an hour and a half later they are walking slowly back to campus, their pace more of an amble than anything else. Dean wonders absently whether, upon their return, Castiel will continue in holding his hand tightly, or walking so close to Dean that they are shoulder to shoulder, or turning around and tugging at Dean to stop so that he can press their lips together once again and return into dipping his tongue into Dean’s mouth and winding his fingers in the human’s hair.

The air around them is bright with warming amber sunlight and crisp, their breath turns to light mist in front of them and all around them small flowers are budding up from the ground.

“Spring,” Castiel starts, decidedly. “Is quite possibly my favourite time of year.”

“Is your birthday in spring?” Dean asks. Castiel begins to giggle. Dean doesn’t know how what he’s said could be construed as funny.

“No,” He shakes his head. “I’m a summer baby.”

“Oh.”

“But spring is _brilliant.”_ Castiel beams.

“Was Rachel born in spring?”

“Rachel was born in November.”

“Oh, I thought she looked like a November person.”

“Can people look like the months they were born in?”

“Sure they can.” Dean frowns. “Have you not found that? It’s like, a vibe they give off.”

“Similar to the vibe where you can tell what kind of animal they would be?” Castiel asks, amusement lacing his tone.

“Don’t take the piss,” Dean chuckles lightly, “but yeah, I’d say so. But not exactly.”

“So what vibe do I give off?”

“I don’t know,” Dean frowns, “initially, I’d have said a February—but that was just because you were so cold towards me when we first met—”

Castiel bumps Dean with his shoulder and laughs.

“—And now I’d say maybe on the cusp of August? July August time?” You narrowed it down by saying you were a summer baby,” He laughs.

“August the third.” Castiel chuckles. “You were right.”

“And you narrowed it down.” Dean reminds.

“You don’t look like a January birthday, I don’t think,” Castiel shakes his head, considering Dean.

“Well, Cas—and I hate to put you down like this—but I’d hardly call you an expert on the matter.” Dean smirks. “I mean, you were introduced to the concept, what, ten seconds ago?”

Castiel bumps Dean’s shoulder again and chuckles.

“I think your timing is a little off.”

“Call it hyperbole to demonstrate a point.”

“If you have to make a point, you shouldn’t use hyperbole to demonstrate it. Otherwise your point is in a sense invalidated; you admit inexplicitly that it is not a good point.”

“I can tell that you’re in the debating team.” Dean rolls his eyes, looking away. Castiel laughs again.

“Argue only using pure reason and you’re unlikely to fail.” Castiel states. Dean groans.

“Can you go back to talking about spring? That seemed like it was gonna go somewhere good.”

“I think it was.” Castiel laughs honestly. “Okay, I like spring and I’m very glad that it’s arrived. The last days of February and the earliest of March are some of my favourite of the year, purely for the anticipation that builds up during the time, you know? I love waiting for it. Spring is so vibrant and colourful and bright—if I were to define life, define vitality, I would do so by describing spring.”

Dean is beaming.

“All the animals sense it, and they fill with it, too. This joy for life, this business, this purpose and direction and drive. And it can be such a rainy season, or such a sunny one, and it can be flowery and bright or muddy and wet and you never really know; but it’s a promise of life and the trees come into blossom and the daffodils come out and I think it is undeniably wonderful.”

“Those are some great reasons.” Dean nods.

“I think it is perhaps the most underrated of all the seasons.” Castiel says thoughtfully. “Spring and fall are the seasons of change; everything is motion. Summer and winter are like blocks of themselves—cold and dim for winter; which isn’t bad, it’s simply itself—and sunny and light for summer. There’s no flow; they certainly ebb and vary in intensity—but Spring is like a river, always changing, always moving. Autumn is the same. It’s almost the end of a story; spring is the beginning.”

“You have quite a way with words.”

“I’m pretentious.” Castiel chuckles honestly. “You enjoy it because it’s you, and that’s very kind. Ezekiel can’t stand it.”

“Ezekiel is shallow,” Dean shrugs, laughing. “He wouldn’t let you get away with it, no matter what.”

“Not so shallow that he can’t be right about it.” Castiel points out. “Think about it—if anybody other than me had said what I just said, would you let them get away with it?”

Dean laughs.

“Probably not” He admits.

“Exactly.” Castiel sounds a little triumphant. Dean notes absently that the angel seems to greatly enjoy being right, even if he does enjoy reasoned debate.

“But then, maybe it’s not a bad thing that you speak like that, even if I only like it because it’s you. I think it’d be cool if people who could, did speak that way, in such flowery language. What’s wrong with being detailed or eloquent?”

“You have a great habit of making me feel better about myself.” Castiel smiles lightly. He shakes his head in an almost wistful manner.

Dean notices suddenly that they have made it back onto the college campus. Suddenly he feels utterly deflated that the date is going to be ending.

“You’re looking suddenly downcast.” Castiel frowns. “What’s wrong?”

“Well—it’s just that—” Dean feels himself go pink. He gestures around them deflatedly. “We’re back.”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards into a kind smile.

“Yes, so we are.” He nods. “And you’re sad about that?”

“Well, I don’t really want it to end.” Dean admits.

“Then it doesn’t have to.” Castiel shrugs. “We could—I don’t know, go back to mine? Yours? We don’t need to do anything else, obviously, we could just talk—”

“—It’s not that I don’t want to do anything else—” Dean frowns suddenly.

“I never said you didn’t.” Castiel shakes his head. “I’m just making sure you know that the options are left open. And always will be, if that makes sense.”

“Cas, has Ezekiel told you anything?” Dean feels suddenly terrified.

“Told me anything?” Castiel repeats, apparently nonplussed.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “About me.”

“What do you mean, about you?”

“Because you seem to know quite a lot—”

“I’m reading between the lines because I can tell that you’re worried. I don’t want you to be worried about that kind of thing around me, ever—and I want you to know that it’s not something that you _should_ worry about. And Ezekiel hasn’t told me anything private about you, I’m not really sure what that would entail, anyway.”

“Ok.” Dean nods. There’s a pause.

“And when I’d only just met you, Ezekiel told me to be nice to you because he thought that something had happened to you, that you’d been hurt. If that’s what you’re talking about, then those are the only words we’ve shared on the subject, if not, then I’m very sorry for bringing it up. Does that make sense? Is that alright?”

Dean feels a little worried and he knows Castiel doesn’t want him to.

“Um—”

“I’m sorry if this has made you uncomfortable.” Castiel says, he presses his hand to Dean’s shoulder.

“Can we find somewhere to sit down?” Dean asks suddenly, looking back up at the angel.

“Of course,” Castiel nods, and in the next moment Dean has been guided over to a low wall to sit on as the angel apologises and states that it was the nearest appropriate seat there was, and Dean shakes his head and thanks the angel.

“I’m sorry for bringing it up, Dean, it’s clearly made you uncomfortable—”

“No, I think I brought it up,” Dean shakes his head. “And I’m just not very used to sharing it—I only ever shared it with Ezekiel, outside of my family, and even then…” He trails off. Castiel looks worried and confused. Dean realises how little the angel knows and furthermore, how little sense Dean must be making as a result of this. “I’m sorry, you must be totally lost—”

“That’s alright.” Castiel shakes his head. “I can piece together what I need to. I just didn’t want you feeling pressured at any point—”

He kneels in front of Dean and Dean feels like _such a freaking idiot—_ who the fuck pulls this kind of shit on a first date, what the fuck is wrong with him?!

“Please don’t worry about any of that, Dean,” Castiel says gently, rubbing Dean’s knee and apparently reading the human’s thoughts. “I’d be conscientious anyway—”

“—But I don’t want you to think that I don’t _want_ to do any of that stuff—”

“I never said I thought that. And you’ve already said all of this, Dean.”

“But I _do_ want to do it,” Dean continues, “I just have to have things… right, you know? I’m sorry if that sounds stupid or needy or—”

“It doesn’t sound like either of those things.” Castiel’s voice is impossibly even and quiet.

“What _do_ you know?” Dean asks suddenly, realising that he is shaking with nerves.

“I know…” Castiel starts cautiously, “that you’ve had bad experiences, though I don’t know how many. I can infer that much, at least. I can infer that somebody hurt you, and that you still think about it, and that you worry about it, and that you worry what other people will think. I can infer that you don’t want to share it, maybe because you’re scared rather than you not _wanting_ to share it, maybe because you feel guilty in sharing it, because you feel as though you would be doing something wrong in sharing your troubles with another person, as though it’s an imposition, and an unwelcome one. The first night we kissed,”

“ _Last_ night.” Dean points out.

“Yes, last night,” Castiel nods, fingers grazing Dean’s knee as he continues to kneel in front of the human. “You told me you’d been in a very bad relationship for three months, and though I don’t know if the two are connected—”

“This hasn’t put you off me in any way, has it?” Dean interrupts, suddenly terrified. Castiel looks up at Dean, from where he had been staring at his fingers drawing patterns across Dean’s knees; which despite everything are now dancing with the touch.

“How could it?” Castiel frowns. He looks almost upset. “This is—none of your fault, Dean, though I’m sure you don’t believe it, and—” Dean swallows hard at Castiel’s words. “It’s only made me want to be more cautious with you.” The angel explains. “You’re precious, and deserve to feel happy and safe, and I want to take care of you as far as you’ll let me and make you feel as happy and safe as is at all possible. It couldn’t possibly put me off. I’d be awful, if it put me off.”

“Can you kiss me again?” Dean asks timidly.

Castiel beams and obliges, rising slowly and tilting Dean’s chin up.

“I’m sorry to do this on our first date.” Dean looks down when they pull apart, mortified.

“Well, you shouldn’t be.” Castiel shakes his head firmly. “It’s nothing to be sorry for. I’m glad we had this conversation, I don’t know about you.”

Dean doesn’t think before pulling Castiel towards him for a hug. The angel seems utterly surprised. Dean realises suddenly that this may well be the first hug that the two of them have shared.

How strange, he thinks absently.

Castiel gives him a gentle squeeze.

“Back to mine for another talk? And anything else you’re in the mood for?”

“I think I might actually be in the mood for quite a lot of things, Cas.” Dean admits, embarrassed by his own words.

Castiel lets out a soft huff of air through his nose.

“Well, we’ll see.”

“I’m sorry I put this on you—”

“I’m glad you did.” Castiel reassures. “I think it’s a good thing.” He helps Dean back up. “It’s best to be as honest as you can be, I think. You might disagree, I don’t know.”

“It’s just not easy.” Dean admits. His face feels red. “But talking…”

“Communication is good.” Castiel shrugs. “You tell me what you’re okay with—in regards to anything with us, as well—and what you’re not okay with, and I’ll always respect that. That’s a promise. Alright?”

He glances at Dean and slips his hand into the human’s once more.

Dean swallows and nods.

“Yeah.” He confirms. “Alright.” Pause. “You know—you’re being really nice about all of this—”

“That’s kind of you, Dean, but I don’t think ‘nice’ is the word.” Castiel laughs softly. He looks at Dean, expression intent and genuine. “I’m trying to do what’s right. Morally right, and right by you.”

Dean ducks his head.

“Do you think Ezekiel will be there?” He asks, changing the subject quickly.

“I doubt it,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “He hates being alone, and it’s unlikely he’d find anybody to keep him company in our room with both of us out of the picture. I’ll text him to make sure.” Castiel answers, and with this pulls out his cell and types out a text to his roommate. “He’s in a bit of a shitty mood with me,” Castiel laughs, “so I’d best be cautious in my text. He doesn’t like it when I act too friendly after a fight without us talking it over.”

Dean laughs despite himself.

“Should I be threatened by the fact that you and Ezekiel seem to have the relationship of two people who’ve been married for five years?”

Castiel chuckles and the way his eyes spark with fire makes Dean’s insides tremble with something alien.

“Possibly,” He smirks, “though wouldn’t that mean I was having an affair with you? You would be my secret lover.”

“I didn’t know you were into roleplay, Cas.”  

Castiel grins and bumps shoulders with Dean.

“If you’re into it, Dean, I’m fine with giving it a go.”

Dean has turned red again.

Suddenly they are outside Castiel’s building.

The angel stops and turns to Dean. They haven’t even made it inside yet, and already Castiel is looking at him with intent and purpose—but not the kind Dean wants; the kind that flares across someone’s face when they want to broach a delicate subject.

“So,” Castiel starts, taking Dean’s hands. “Shall we start out by talking, and then take it from there? As far as you’re comfortable with?”

Dean worries that he’s going to be pretty comfortable going pretty far with Castiel—and by that he means _very—_ and that Castiel is going to think that he’s easy and classless and whorish, if he doesn’t already—

“I wouldn’t think that.” Castiel frowns softly, and Dean realises, wishing he could cry of embarrassment, that he has said all these thoughts out loud. Castiel’s tone is defensive; though not of himself, the human realises with a shock, of _Dean._ “And I _don’t_ think that. That’s an awful thing to think about a person. Unhealthy. Unkind.”

“I didn’t mean to say that—” Dean admits, ducking his head. Castiel squeezes his hands. “—You make it too easy to talk to you—I just blurt things out—”

“—I’ll try to be less easy to communicate in future.” Castiel teases softly. Dean glances up at him and rolls his eyes.

“Can we go inside?” He asks quietly.

“Of course,” The angel nods his head. “I just wanted to make sure we were totally clear.”

“We are,” Dean nods quickly, frowning. “And I want to do things, I just wanted you to know—”

“And now I know.” Castiel presses his hand to Dean’s shoulder. “And if at any point you want to stop, you just say that—just say ‘stop’; and I will. Immediately. That’s a promise. Good.”

“Good.” Dean confirms. “I hope this hasn’t put you off—”

“I’ve already said it hasn’t.” Castiel shrugs gently. “Everybody’s got their own experience that we need to be mindful of.” He takes a quiet step closer to Dean as he speaks with calm understanding. “And I want to be part of yours. A positive part of it.” Dean’s lips twitch upwards at this. His back is almost pressed against the door and Castiel takes his chin between thumb and forefinger and tilts it softly upward. “And I particularly enjoy the idea of me being the first person to give you head.” His smile is small and laced with something made of fire and ember; it sparks along Dean’s insides and he barely catches his breath in the next instant.

“But only the idea of it?” He attempts to raise his eyebrows teasingly, but has a feeling he fails miserably—Castiel, to his credit, laughs softly and is kind and lightly humorous in his response.

“Well, until I’m presented with an opportunity to actually _do_ it, I’ll have to settle for the pleasure brought to me by the thought…” He chuckles gently. His nose is nearly touching Dean’s.

“I don’t know, Cas…” Dean swallows, hugely distracted by the angel’s hands, which are now circling slowly around his waist. “…I’d hate to see you wait for something like that, if you’re so sure you’d enjoy it so much. How sure are you?”

“Absolutely certain.” Castiel’s lips dance upwards. His nose grazes Dean’s yet he still refuses to kiss him. It’s tortuous. “And I’ve been told that I manage to make it quite enjoyable for the one receiving, but again…” He trails off for a moment. “…That’s something you’d have to find out for yourself, I suppose…”

“I think I’d be quite happy finding out,” Dean starts. Castiel laughs quietly and finally presses his lips to Dean’s. He pushes Dean gently, slowly, up against the door, and starts to kiss him deeper and deeper. Dean stifles a moan into the kisses that grow increasingly possessive; and before he knows it Castiel is grinding into him, up against the door—and _fuck_ the angel is good at it and it feels so good, but—

“Cas,” Dean pulls apart from the kiss and the angel lets out a grumpy sounding little growl, resolving in the next moment to kiss down Dean’s neck instead of at his lips. “—Not that this doesn’t feel good, but—should we be doing it—” He groans and his eyes flutter closed as Castiel draws his teeth across Dean’s neck, “—here?” He finishes with a gasp, glancing down the fortunately—or rather, for the time being—empty corridor.

Castiel pauses and groans into the curve of Dean’s neck. Something about it has the human smiling. Warm affection flowers through him alongside aching, timid arousal.

“Maybe not.” The angel admits. He reaches behind Dean and opens the door to the room, pushing it open and pressing Dean gently inside. He closes it behind them. “I can’t help that you’re so irresistible, though.” He smirks, looking Dean up and down.

The human blushes and looks away.

In the next instant, Castiel has pulled Dean back towards him and has pinned him to the inside of the door, again, his tongue dipping inside of Dean’s mouth. His hips set back into that filthy grind once again, threads of golden pleasure are winding their way through Dean like sunlight; the world is turning hazy with pleasure. The next instant, the grinding turns heavier, needier, and Dean lets out a long, low groan.

“Shit.” He mutters, swallowing thickly as Castiel laces kisses down his neck.

“Shit, indeed.” Castiel repeats, chuckling softly as Dean’s hands move to fist at the angel’s hair. “All joking aside, how would you feel about me giving you your first blowjob?”

Dean’s breath gets caught in his throat. He’s lost at how to respond— _now,_ this is happening _now,_ he thinks—and he’s terrified and excited and desperate for it and he knows that Castiel will understand all of that, no matter how lame it is, and—

“I—” Dean’s voice is raw. His face and neck prickle raw with heat. Castiel’s eyes trail absently down his neck; which hardly helps the sensation, though the angel’s attention remains undoubtedly fixed on Dean’s answer. “Yeah.” He nods, exhaling. “Yes, please.”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. Why the fuck did Dean say ‘Yes please’?! What the fuck is wrong with him?!

“Alright, then.” Castiel nods softly. “Ezekiel won’t be back for a while, I’m sure. We’ve got time to kill.”

This thought has Dean shuddering against Castiel; and the trembling continues as Castiel palms at Dean, feeling the human’s hardness through his all-too-tight jeans; the touch is almost too much and Dean just has to succumb to it: let Castiel feel him through his clothing, palm at him for as long as he likes, tease him like this until he’s ready to move on to more.

“Oh, fuck—” Dean groans at the physical contact, eyes fluttering helplessly open and closed; he wants this to last forever and yet he desperately wants relief; he trembles helplessly against Castiel’s wonderfully confident frame.

“I’m so glad I asked you out.” Castiel chuckles, grazing his nose gently against Dean’s. Dean somehow manages to nudge back at Castiel’s nose.

“I’m glad you did, too.” He laughs. “I sure as fuck wouldn’t have been able to ask you.”

“You were rather shy around me.” Castiel admits, his lips twitching upwards.

Dean is sure he flushes at this massive understatement, and laughter tumbles from Cas’s lips before he has time to seal them to Dean’s neck again. Dean groans at the touch, he wants, _needs_ more—but Castiel seems to have his own pace to things; his own rhythm, and inexplicably, Dean _likes_ giving himself up to that. He trusts Castiel with this—weirdly—something which he hasn’t been able to do with _anyone—_ and here he is—

“I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.” Castiel admits suddenly, sighing as he pauses to press his forehead against the joint between Dean’s neck and his shoulder.

“I’ve wanted you to do it for a long time.” Dean confesses, laughing breathily beneath Castiel. The angel glances up, his lips twitching upwards, eyes both hungry and affectionate as they regard Dean slowly through thick black eyelashes.

“I wish I’d kissed you sooner.”

“If the task were left to me, I probably never would have achieved it.” Dean laughs. Castiel snorts softly.

“True,” He hums, framing Dean’s jaw in his hands and tilting the human’s head up gently. He scatters kisses across the underside of Dean’s jaw, the touch like heaven to Dean. He thinks he begins to tremble more than ever underneath the angel.

“So, what do you say,” Castiel says, pulling back suddenly, earning him a startled whine from Dean’s lips, “do you want me to be the first guy to suck your dick?”

Dean’s face practically catches on fire. He doesn’t miss Castiel’s smug smirk in response to this.

“Yes, please.” He nods meekly.

“I think I quite like the effect I seem to have on you.” Castiel hums, his lips twitching upwards. Dean looks up at Castiel through his thick brown eyelashes and blushes again. “Yes,” Castiel smiles, brushing his nose against Dean’s, “I like it a lot.”

The angel resumes in kissing down the side of Dean’s neck, grazing his lips down the human’s flesh, adoring every inch of it, before—

The world has turned bright with an odd, silvery white light.

Dean’s head is tipped back against the door. He can’t do anything else with it. His hands—what are his hands doing? They are touching something soft and ruffled—right, Castiel’s hair. He can’t even look down to gaze at Castiel; everything feels tight inside of him, Castiel’s tongue runs slowly up the underside of Dean’s dick, before winding around its head, Castiel moves to mouth at Dean’s balls and then swallows all of Dean down, which feels _amazing_ and Dean’s hips stutter forwards and he’s losing all sense of what’s happening; Castiel’s head is bobbing up and down and it keeps bobbing up and down and he is cupping and massaging Dean’s balls while his tongue winds around the head of Dean’s dick inside of Cas’s mouth—

Dean’s breathing has turned shallow, he can’t concentrate on or articulate anything—Cas was _right_ when he said he was good at this, _holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,_ the world has turned to silver and gold threads of light, all of which are balling tighter and tighter together, everything is getting tighter and tighter, until—

It all explodes and the silver and gold flood Dean’s senses; his limbs feel filled with a sweetness he doesn’t remember feeling for a long time; his head feels empty and hazy and it lolls back against the wall but he manages to tilt it down to catch Castiel licking up come still leaking out of his cock before taking Dean back inside his mouth again. Everything feels sensitive and Dean whimpers and groans at the sensation, the threads of light settling slowly on the floor around them; floating down gently; but the sweetness and the mind-fog still saturating his senses. His legs feel weak, he thinks he could collapse onto the floor at any moment, but somehow he remains upright, and when Castiel is satisfied in having swallowed all of the result of Dean’s orgasm, he moves back up to Dean’s level and begins to kiss softly down the human’s neck, humming happily.

“Good?” He asks, voice beaming into Dean’s skin.

Dean barely has the strength to nod.

“So…” He pants. Castiel chuckles softly and presses a kiss to Dean’s left ear. “So fucking good, Cas…” Dean moans. Castiel drags his nose across Dean’s skin and kisses Dean on the mouth again. The angel’s mouth tastes strange, now, his hands wind round Dean’s waist once more; Dean becomes suddenly conscious of the fact that his jeans rest awkwardly around his ankles; that Castiel pressing into him once more means that Castiel’s jeans are now rubbing against Dean’s now all-too-sensitive dick.

The angel seems to realise all of this and pulls back, kneeling back down a moment and pulling up Dean’s boxers and jeans for him—Dean can’t help but feel slightly patronised, but the angel is guiding him over to his bed and Dean has to fumble with his zipper and belt-buckle for a moment before kissing the angel again as Castiel sits them both down on his bed.

“You don’t regret it?” Castiel asks gently, kissing down Dean’s neck. The world still feels sweet, in thrums with this light sugariness in a soft, low sensation.

“No,” Dean shakes his head quickly. “Not at all. It was great—you were great—” He suddenly realises his manners and reaches for Castiel’s zipper. “Would you like me to make it up—”

Castiel catches Dean’s wrist before he makes it any further and shakes his head gently.

“It’s not a matter of ‘making it up’, Dean,” He lets out a warm, kind laugh. “I didn’t do it so you’d give me one back. That’s not how it works—well, not with me. It’s not an exchange. I wanted to make you feel good—”

“—And you _did.”_ Dean says quickly. He realises with embarrassment that he sounds a little desperate. “—And I just want to return the favour—”

“It wasn’t a _favour,_ Dean,” Castiel talks to Dean as he would do to a child, and Dean grows frustrated.

“—I mean, _I_ want to make you feel good as well. That’s all.”

“Well, I enjoyed what I just did,” Castiel tilts Dean’s head up and kisses him again. “I enjoyed the effect it had on you. I enjoyed watching you react to it. How about you have a break for a bit?”

Dean sighs and desperately wants to pout.

Castiel leans forward and kisses Dean until he is lying flat on the bed.

“I think you understand why I’m saying this, Dean,” His lips twitch softly upwards, inches away from the human’s as he lies on top of him.

“I’m just not used to…” Dean blushes, looking away from Castiel’s eyes of brightest blue, “—I don’t know—people being that— _giving—_ I’m not used to…” He trails off. Castiel presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, and suddenly a kind of lethargy sweeps through Dean, and he remembers the sweetness he felt earlier.

“I’m fairly giving, you’ll discover,” Castiel chuckles, grazing his nose across Dean’s. “Are you feeling tired?” He asks softly. He presses a kiss to Dean’s cheekbone, now.

“Yeah,” Dean finds himself looking down. Castiel rolls off of him and pulls the human towards him to kiss slowly.

“Your eyes looked a little heavy.” The angel laughs softly. Dean’s lips twitch upwards. Castiel’s hands have moved to slip under his shirt and now stroke gently at his back. The sensation is light and warm and Dean’s feet are starting to feel numb.

“I can’t believe you actually _like_ me…” Dean mumbles. His eyes are beginning to flutter closed. Castiel squeezes Dean’s body gently to his own.

“I can’t believe you _still_ like me,” The angel replies, voice warm with an affection that has Dean’s head feeling heavy on the pillow it rests on. “After I was such an ass to you.”

“You were fine,” Dean shrugs. “Sometimes you’d do things that made me really happy.”

Dean feels Castiel’s happy exhalation ruffle his hair.

“That’s good.” The angel nods. “Do you want to sleep for a bit?” He asks gently.

“I feel bad…” Dean mumbles, but he can hardly rouse himself. “—I didn’t get you off—”

“And as far as I know, this is our first opportunity to have fun with one another in this kind of way; not our last.” Castiel soothes, warm amusement curling the edges of his voice.

“I’m just not very used to it…” Dean mumbles.

“Perhaps, as time passes, you’ll grow a little more used to it.” Castiel replies. His hand grazes wonderfully up the rope of Dean’s spine, Dean curves his body into the touch. “I certainly hope so.”

“I hope I get to have a lot more dates with you.” Dean presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder. The angel chuckles quietly.

“Yes, I do too.” He returns. “So, you enjoyed our first date?”

“Best first date.” Dean mumbles. “Ever.”

Castiel chuckles.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Weird.” Dean sighs happily. “But nice.”

“I think I’ve heard people describe me that way, before.” Castiel jokes quietly. Dean laughs sleepily and presses his head a little harder against Castiel.

He is sure that in the next moment, he has drifted off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry this took so long, hope you enjoyed it)


	11. Twin Size Mattress

 

When Dean wakes up, Castiel appears to have also drifted off to sleep.

It’s a weird way to first wake up to someone—though not unpleasant.

It’s especially weird considering the fact that he and Castiel effectively just took a _nap_ together; that this was after only _Dean_ got off—which hasn’t really happened before. It’s never _just_ Dean who gets off—it wasn’t even that way with Gadreel, who was infinitely more considerate than _others…_

But Castiel was so intent on Dean having a good time—and it’s nothing that Dean is used to. It has him feeling weird and a little worried, so alien the sensation of being so looked after is to Dean. He feels embarrassed—and should he? Was Castiel just being kind? Does Castiel just get off on giving people pleasure?

Well, Dean at least knows _that’s_ true—Cas is obsessed with getting everyone off. It’s part of his whole free love thing and it’s one of the first things that Dean learnt about the angel. But he still worries.

And what now? What happens when Castiel wakes up? What do they do then? Will things go back to being awkward? Will Castiel want to do _more?_ Is Dean in the mood for doing any more than what he already has done? The honest answer is no, definitely not; he’s tired and has worked himself up into this state of anxiety—and he _never_ has fun when he feels like this—but if Cas got him off earlier, surely he’ll expect Dean to do the same for him now? Surely that’s only fair?

He grinds his teeth together with worry and presses his eyes tightly shut.

Maybe, if he tries hard enough, he’ll wish himself out of existence.

 

…

 

Castiel wakes up to the absence of the pressure of Dean’s head on his chest.

He’s slightly disappointed by the lack of it—something like honey had seeped through him at the presence of Dean’s head at his frame; the pressure and heaviness had translated to syrup filling Castiel’s limbs at the knowledge of _how comfortable_ Dean felt around him, _finally,_ but he wakes up and Dean’s head is…

Staring up at the ceiling a little way across the bed—in reality, no more than a few inches, though the distance is enough to have a pout spreading across Castiel’s face—rests Dean, looking more worried than Castiel would care to see; especially considering what the pair had done, prior to the sleep.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, debating whether or not he ought to reach out and brush a few stray strands of hair back from Dean’s forehead, or whether this would be an intrusion rather than its intended comforting touch. In the end, he does reach across to Dean and do this; though begins to regret it at the non-reaction of the human. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Why?” Dean frowns. He looks worried. Castiel says as much. “Oh.” Dean says, rather shortly. He rolls onto his side and finally looks at Castiel. “I am a little.” He admits.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Castiel replies, anxiety simmering subtly inside him, too, now. “Is there anything I can do to help? What are you worrying about, in particular?”

“I’m not very used to what you did, just now.” Dean confesses. “—People actually… _trying_ to get me off, I mean. That’s not usually how my relationships have worked.”

“That’s sad.” Castiel frowns. Dean shrugs carelessly and appears tempted to roll back over onto his side again.

“It’s the way things are.” He replies.

“Not anymore.” Castiel shakes his head. “I want you to have a good time.”

“And it’s not that I don’t normally,” Dean reasons. “And why do you give a fuck anyway? It’s like—I don’t know, it’s all so alien to me. Everyone I’ve met _wants_ something out of me, and you… What _do_ you want, Cas?”

Castiel glances down. He makes out a bruise formed by his own mouth, his own sucking, on Dean’s neck—and any other time he’d feel _delighted_ that it was _him, finally him_ who gave these marks to Dean—but now he just feels worried and selfish.

“I don’t want you feeling unhappy, Dean.” He replies honestly. “Or anxious, like you are now.”

“That’s just _me,_ Cas,” Dean sighs. “And what do you want from _me,_ anyway.”

“That’s quite a loaded question.” Castiel frowns.

“Then I’m sorry for asking it,” Dean rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. “—I just—”

“I don’t want to take advantage of you, if that’s what you mean.” Castiel reaches out and places a steadying hand on Dean’s shoulder. “At all. And anything that I do or say in your presence, or do or say to you, with you—I don’t do it to get any kind of reward; anything in return. I want you happy, I want you happy with me, and when _I’m_ happy, I want it to be with you.”

“I’m really not used to being treated that kindly.” Dean confesses.

“And that’s a shame; and it’s a shame on the people who haven’t been kind to you. And where I’ve certainly failed miserably before, I’d very much like to be kind to you, now.” Castiel’s forehead knits together in an honest frown, Dean’s expression is embarrassed and lost. “You’re worthy of kindness, Dean,” Castiel reminds. “You deserve to be kind to yourself, you deserve to be treated with kindness by others. And I’m not going to treat you a certain way because I have certain expectations of the way that I’ll be treated in return. That isn’t fair.”

“But you’ve got to want _something.”_ Dean’s tone is an attempt at reason, but it sounds like such an odd combination between nonsense and sadness in Castiel’s ears that he nearly finds himself frustrated.

“I want you to like me the same way I like you.” He sits up and pulls a hoodie on. “Ezekiel will be back soon,” He explains in answer to Dean’s questioning expression.

“Right,” The human shakes himself into action and sits up in the bed, too, embarrassedly fastening his belt and zipping up his flies. He looks as though he feels massively out of place once again, and so Castiel leans towards him for another kiss.

“I do enjoy my time with you,” He hums softly. Dean blushes and ducks his head with an admittedly bashful smile as Castiel stands.

“Cool—me too—” The human stammers out. Castiel cuts his babbling short by catching hold of Dean’s hand.

“Have you got everything?” He asks. Dean hesitates a moment before nodding. “Good,” Castiel smiles, “Then I’ll walk you back to your place. If that’s alright?”

“That’s fine.” Dean nods very quickly in response to Castiel’s question. The angel smirks slightly.

“Great,” He replies. “And you _have_ enjoyed today, right?”

“Of course,” Dean confirms quickly as the pair step out onto the corridor. “It’s just—”

“—Not what you’re used to.” Castiel finishes with a smile.

“Yeah…” Dean sighs.

“And is it a good thing that this was so different?”

“It was just so…” Dean seems a little lost. “ _Nice.”_ He finishes with a frown.

“And nice is a bad thing?” Castiel raises his eyebrows over to the human.

“No, not at all—” Dean shakes his head quickly. “—It’s just—it’s all so alien—and I’m sorry for being weird, but I think it’s gonna take me adjusting to that. And I’m sorry if that’s not something that you can wait for.”

“Dean,” Castiel nearly laughs, “though you may find the thought quite alarming, I’m prepared to do any amount of waiting in regards to this relationship if it guarantees your happiness.”

Dean blushes furiously and doesn’t seem able to respond.

“And I understand that it’s new to you—and I’ll confess that that knowledge does upset me, somewhat—though I think of it as a great happiness that you get to get used to it with _me,_ rather than anyone else.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand. “Alien or not, I don’t think you’ve been behaving at all strangely, so don’t worry about that. I’ve said it before: all I want from this is for you to be happy. I’m going to work as hard as it takes to guarantee that; I don’t mind waiting for it.” He turns to look at Dean. “There,” He finishes with a smile, “does that cover all bases? Are you feeling at least slightly less worried?”

“I am.” Dean concedes. Castiel beams triumphantly.

“It’s such a miracle that you still wanted to date me considering the awful way I treated you.” Castiel snorts, looking up at the sky, growing dim and pink with evening. “I honestly don’t know why you kept _liking_ me—I couldn’t possibly have had any amount of redeeming features—”

“Cas, you worry as much as _I_ do.” Dean laughs. “And that’s really saying something.”

“At this point, Dean,” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, “it’s not so much worry as it is awe. I’m amazed at how forgiving you are.”

“I think you’re overstating how rude you were to me.” Dean counters, tone flat and honest.

“I don’t think I am at all,” Castiel replies, a thoughtful frown knitting its way across his features. “For one thing, I was _so cold_ to you when we first met—then I went through whole stages of not speaking to you at all—”

“You thought I was racist—”

“And then at _so many_ parties I was _so horrible_ to you.” Castiel shakes his head, starting to hate himself at the thought. “And I _knew_ that I was doing it—that’s what makes it worse—”

“At least you’re self-aware…”

“—And then on your _birthday,_ I was _awful_ towards you—I started berating you for _apologising—”_

“Yeah, that did suck a bit…” Dean admits, looking down. Castiel groans and rubs his eyes.

“I felt awful about that for days, you have no idea. I felt like I’d put myself too far out there with that present; and then the sight of you with so many people so clearly… _enamoured_ with you, just like I was… It made me feel so vulnerable and stupid, and so I lashed out at you the first chance I got…”

“Cas,” Dean starts, a soft frown pinching at his features.

“Yes, Dean?”

“How much—I mean, I know you _like_ me—but how much…” The human struggles for his words and winces involuntarily. “Do you, like, _care?_ Because hearing you talk about it now—and your present to me, like you said—and the way you’ve acted today—it makes me think… I don’t know, I’m sorry if this is too forward, or if it sounds dumb, or if it’s just _totally_ off—but it makes me think you like me, not _just_ a bit. But like, a lot…” He worries at his lip and refuses to look at Castiel. “And I don’t want to have that completely wrong—I don’t want to think you care about me more than you actually _do—_ because I know you’re kind, but—” Castiel actually snorts at this, because _really,_ he thinks to himself, he’s not that fucking kind at all, “—I keep feeling like you really _do care,_ a lot, and is that the case? Or is it just a crush? How deep does all of this go? Because I need to know so _I_ don’t…” He trails off awkwardly. “…Y’know…”

“Care too much?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean, finishing the human’s sentence for him.

“Yeah.” Dean looks down, uncomfortably.

Dean’s words are a horrible brick wall to Castiel; a massive signpost of his feelings that he had been hoping he could afford to ignore for as long as possible. He’s admitted that he _likes_ Dean, that he considers the human attractive—very attractive—and that yes, he returns Dean’s crush. But all this talk of _caring—_ and asking how much Castiel _does_ care—is painful and terrifying for the angel. He cares—of course he cares—and a lot, maybe—but he can hardly say that to himself, let alone out loud. But of course he cares! And of course he’s being kind to Dean, now—how could he not be? He’s been an ass for long enough, and Dean has shared deep, personal details about his life with Castiel over the past few hours—and _yes,_ Castiel cares, of course of course, but what exactly does he _feel_ toward Dean?

“It’s more than a crush…” Castiel says slowly—this in itself is hardly any kind of confession at all, and yet it was agony to say out loud. “I don’t…” He worries at his lip. “Of _course_ it’s more than a crush, Dean.”

“Then what is it?”

Worry worms its way across Castiel’s features. Why is talking about his feelings to Dean so difficult? Especially when he encourages the human to be able to do the same thing so freely? Is he just a hypocrite, pushing double standards and inconsistencies onto Dean with every moment they are together?

“I really don’t know…” He sighs, half-lying. Dean looks crestfallen. “I care about you a lot, obviously—but then, how could I not? You’re…” He trails off a moment. “ _You.”_ He sighs again. “Brilliant. Lovely. And admitting that is really scary for me, and talking about anything _more_ that I feel—” He cuts himself off. They have reached Dean’s building and Castiel stops outside to turn to the human when speaking to him, next. “—Well, let’s just say that I’m going to need you to be patient with me, as well.” He sighs, letting out a short, droll laugh. Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“That’s alright.” He shrugs calmly. Castiel desperately wants to run his fingers through the humans short, light brown hair until Dean is purring at the touch.

“But there’s not really any danger of you caring or feeling more than I do, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Dean looks down, smiling softly, and pulls Castiel inside.

“That’s reassuring.” He admits.

“I thought you might think so.” Castiel laughs quietly.

Dean’s cell buzzes. He pulls it out of his back pocket and checks it.

“Ezekiel’s invited me to a party, tonight,” He looks back up at Castiel. “Do you know if you’re going?”

“He hasn’t asked me,” Castiel chuckles.

“Oh.” Dean frowns awkwardly.

“—Don’t worry, he’s just pissed off with me about the fight earlier. He always does this.”

“But do you think you’ll go?”

“I guess,” Castiel shrugs carelessly. “Do you think you will?”

“If you will, yeah,” Dean laughs honestly. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“And I’ll get to see you there?”

“That’s the whole point of me going, Cas.” Dean snorts.

“Good,” Castiel chooses to ignore Dean’s teasing. “Then I look forward to it.”

“Me too.”

Castiel kisses Dean goodbye, long and slow, before the human disappears behind his door, blushing and beaming and mumbling a goodbye of his own. Castiel’s heart is singing as he walks back to his room. He hardly even notices Ezekiel’s pointed ignoring of him upon his return. He gets out some work for himself and thinks about how nice it will be to be drunk and with Dean, again.

 

…

 

Dean arrives at the party about an hour after Ezekiel suggested; as a result the whole thing appears to have exploded and is in full swing upon Dean’s arrival. Castiel has texted him telling him he’s only been here for about half an hour and that the whole thing is very loud and overrated and not his scene at all—and adds in another text that he realises that he sounds pretentious and is getting stoned in one of the bedrooms if Dean would like to join him.

Dean enters, and Ezekiel somehow immediately spots him and shouts out his name.

“Hey, man, we’ve been waiting for you!” He yells from across the hall. “What took you so long?”

“—I was just—” Dean attempts to shout back, but Ezekiel interrupts him.

“—Wait a minute—I’ll come over to you!”

When Ezekiel is stood beside Dean the human attempts to explain again.

“I was doing work,” He says, far quieter than his shouting across the hall just a moment previously, “and lost track of time. Sorry, man.”

“No, that’s fine,” Ezekiel shakes his head. “I was just a little worried, that’s all—after earlier, y’know.”

“…Right…” Dean nods, embarrassed. It’s hard to believe the amount that has happened in just one day. Especially when Dean’s life normally seems so uneventful.

“But you’re alright now, right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean nods quickly. _Great, even,_ he thinks to himself.

“Good.” Ezekiel nods, relieved. “Castiel is here, by the way—I’m sorry, I didn’t invite him deliberately, ‘cause I thought maybe you just needed time away from him, or something—but he heard about it somehow—when I find out who told him—” Ezekiel scowls, but Dean presses a hand to his friend’s shoulder.

“Hey, it’s cool.” He shakes his head. “Earlier—it wasn’t because of that, don’t worry. And I’m not gonna demand that Castiel doesn’t have a social life, just on my behalf.”

“Alright,” Ezekiel sighs, looking about his surroundings with an odd kind of purpose. “It’s good that you’re so calm about it, Dean—you’re a very laid-back kind of guy, you know,”

Dean snorts at the angel’s words.

“I just hope you don’t have to watch him pull tonight,” Ezekiel groans. Dean blushes. “Earlier he came in so happy and cheerful, and I think he got laid. He must’ve gone out after our fight and found someone to angry-fuck—” Ezekiel cuts himself off, looking at Dean, who is bright red. “—Shit, sorry,” He shakes his head quickly, patting Dean on the shoulder. “You don’t want to hear any of this, of course.”

Dean forces a smile and pretends to act ignorant.

“Thanks,” He nods at his friend—and then, for good measure—“You and Castiel had a fight?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ezekiel winces, “Bad. Big and ugly. Only verbal, don’t worry—but we don’t usually clash that explicitly, y’know? Normally, if there’s tension there, we’ll just solve it through little digs and subtly pissing the other off. This one?” Ezekiel sucks air through his teeth a moment for effect. “I’m tellin’ you, if Cassie hadn’t stormed out, it probably would’ve turned physical.”

“What was it over?” Dean frowns.

Ezekiel hesitates a moment before answering, then he forces out a rather unnatural laugh.

“Doesn’t even matter now,” He shakes his head a little too quickly. Ezekiel is a shitty liar, Dean thinks to himself with fond amusement. “Oh, and there he is,” Ezekiel nods over to the other end of the hall, where Castiel has just emerged from a room in a rather appropriate cloud of smoke. Even from the end of the corridor, Dean can make out how bloodshot the guy’s eyes are. “And he’s giving you the stink-eye— _what_ a prick, I swear to _fucking god—”_ Ezekiel looks like he’s about to storm forward and confront Castiel, but Dean holds him back and murmurs into the angel’s ear that he doesn’t care, anyway, and they’re probably mistaken. Castiel might not even be _looking_ at him.

Ezekiel _is_ mistaken, but before today Dean would have been very much convinced that Castiel was giving him the stink-eye, too—it’s just that _now_ he recognises that to be the look that Castiel gives when he wants to kiss someone; not in the soft, tender way he did in the diner or as he said goodbye to Dean; but in the haunting, possessive way he did when he had Dean pressed up against his door, when he started grinding himself into the human like he didn’t know how to do anything else. Castiel is looking at Dean like he wants to fuck him slowly into the next century and it sends pinpricks dancing along the human’s skin and a deep blush creeping down his neck.

The angel smirks softly at the sight—Ezekiel has turned away and says something in Dean’s direction about finding someone for him to spend the night with—Dean claps his hand on his friend’s shoulder in a manner that he hopes Ezekiel will find encouraging; but honestly, his mind is very much elsewhere. As Ezekiel leaves Dean, Castiel remains stationary, eyes fixed on the human. He stares intently at Dean, not approaching him, but looking at Dean like he wants to _devour_ him—and it is with still more pinpricks of arousal that Dean realises that Castiel is practically _summoning_ him. His legs move like clockwork as he approaches the angel, who smirks triumphantly, and as soon as Dean is within reaching distance has hooked his fingers into Dean’s belt loops and pulled the human hungrily towards him.

“I’ve been waiting,” Castiel groans softly into the curve of Dean’s neck, sending electricity darting up his skin, “for what feels like _hours.”_

“Sorry…” Dean mumbles, blushing—but Castiel presses a finger to his lips and pulls Dean gently, firmly inside the room he emerged from.

“You’re well worth it, Dean, don’t worry.” Cas laughs, voice quiet and amused as he closes the door behind them.

The room is dimly lit, bigger than most of the bedrooms Dean has encountered so far, with a bunk-bed on either side of Dean, who is at the door; and a big window opposite him. The curtains are still open, and through them steams the cool light of the moon, making wispy patterns in the smoke surrounding Dean. The window is closed. It has fogged up all but completely. Sat on the beds are several groups of people—Dean notes with surprise that a number of them are human, and wonders if he has had anything to do with Castiel’s apparent change of heart. The whole place seems set in deep reds and indigos, maroons and violets; Dean is reminded, oddly, of an opium den in the way that all the figures around him seem to be slumped in a kind of happy, enlightened lethargy; the way that the smoke around him swirls in slow, lazy spirals, the way that in the light, everyone’s features appear a little hazy.

“This is Dean,” Castiel introduces, voice warm and possessive, palm resting on the small of Dean’s back as he speaks. “He just got here. He’s a freshman.”

“I know Dean,” One of the voices closest to the window smiles. Dean turns and sees a guy off the football team. “I was at his birthday party! Dean’s…” He trails off for a moment. “…Very cool.” He finishes. Castiel, who seems far less fucked than most of the other group, laughs warmly.

“I couldn’t agree more,” He states. He guides Dean down onto a pile of cushions just next to the door, and Dean takes the moment to examine the dimly-lit faces surrounding him, slightly red in the light of the multiple joints surrounding them and the décor of the room; slightly blue in the pale moonlight. The effect is eerie though not unpleasant. The two colours meet and splash violet across the people’s expressions. Castiel’s arm has slipped around Dean’s waist. Dean can’t help but smile.

“My name’s Balthazar,” An angel with wheat coloured wings and a girl on either side of him, beaming at him as he speaks, introduces himself. His accent sounds British, and upon this remark from Dean, the angel explains that he lived in London up until a year ago, when he moved over to the states.

“Ruby,” An angel with dark hair, eyes and wings introduces herself coolly from the bunk beneath Balthazar, and passes Dean the blunt in her hand. Dean thanks her awkwardly. “Wait, shit—you do smoke, right?” She raises her eyebrows at him, her tone and expression far less concerned than her words would suggest. Dean confirms that he does, and she slumps back down on the bed and rolls herself another.

“Hey, Castiel, did you lock the door?” An angel lying on the lower bunk to Dean’s left asks. Castiel mumbles something and gets up to do this; the absence of his presence by Dean’s side has the human feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Upon Castiel’s return, Dean leans heavily into the angel’s side. Castiel huffs out an affectionate breath and slips his arm back around the human.

“Meg,” Comes a voice from the other side of the room. “But we’ve already met.”

Dean turns to see the pretty angel who had unknowingly caused him so much heartache, grinning at him widely—oddly friendly in manner considering the fact that Dean currently has the guy she used to be sleeping with literally wrapped around him. Dean greets her awkwardly.

“You and Clarence are a thing, now, huh?” She asks, a warm kind of amusement ebbing into her voice.

Dean glances nervously at Castiel who laughs softly and confirms.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” She shakes her head. “He is _so_ your type, Castiel.”

Voices around the room all murmur in agreement.

“So this is the guy that got Castiel to actually have a go at speaking to us?” A human sat next to Meg asks. She glances at him with an entertained fire sparking in her deep brown eyes. Dean blushes profusely and keeps his head down. “Dude, what did you do? How did you get _Castiel_ to—”

“—Garth, stop making him feel uncomfortable—”

“—I’m _asking,_ geez—”

“My name’s Tessa.” An angel on the top bunk to Dean’s left greets him. Her wings are a deep maroon. “Nice to meet you.”

Dean returns the sentiment.

Aside from this, Dean is introduced to an angel named Victor, another named Cassie, a human called Ash and another, very friendly human named Ava. Dean’s head is starting to feel heavy.

“Yo, man, you feelin’ it?” Garth asks from the other side of the room. Honestly, how could Dean not be? The room is so filled with smoke that the air is heavy and stifling with it, and anyway, the stuff they’ve got is _really_ strong. Castiel pulls Dean tighter into his side and Dean gladly leans into it, feeling more disoriented than he has in a _long_ time.

“Uh—yeah…” He confirms, frowning about his surroundings. Time is starting to pass really weirdly. “How long have we been in here?” He asks, looking back up at Garth.

 Castiel checks for Dean. He’s been sat in the room for forty-five minutes; it feels infinitely longer than that.

“Hey, let’s get some music playing!” Someone exclaims, rolling so that they are upside-down on the bed.

“What kind of music?”

“Something _trippy.”_

“I’ve got the perfect thing, bro…”

Someone scrambles for their phone and the speakers in front of the window and plug it in. Pink Floyd starts oozing out slowly. Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“This is your kind of thing, isn’t it, Dean?” Castiel asks, squeezing Dean into his side. Dean confirms, his head lolling onto Castiel’s shoulder.

“I feel floaty.” He mumbles. Castiel snorts and starts giggling.

“That’s good,” His voice smiles. “Me too.”

“You know what would be cool?” Someone asks from one of the beds.

“What?” The group replies in monotonous unison.

“If we had _glowsticks.”_

“ _Yeah…”_ Everyone agrees. Silence falls for a moment as everyone considers the wonder of each of them having glowsticks at this moment in time.

“When you guys get stoned, what’s like… the _main_ thing that happens to you?” Ava asks from on top of the bunkbed to Dean’s right. Balthazar is playing with her hair as she lies lethargically across his lap.

“I feel… stoned?” Someone squints at her in response. She throws a pillow at them but misses utterly and it lands on the floor at Dean’s feet.

“I always feel _hungry.”_ Garth mumbles, shaking his head dolefully. Someone pulls out a pack of Doritos and hands it to him. Dean cannot help but laugh at Garth’s elated response.

“I always feel like my neck is really thin, but that my head has like, a weight in it… that’s _round._ But then the rest of my head is really light. Y’know?”

“Not at all.” Balthazar snorts. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. The music around them is growing confusing to Dean.

“I always feel a little lost. Intellectually. Intellectually lost.” Ash answers.

“Ash, as far as I know, you _always_ feel a little intellectually lost.” Someone laughs. The rest of the group joins in.

“Some people say they feel horny.” Cassie says from where she and Meg have ended up sprawled across each other.

“I can believe that,” Meg giggles, playing with her hair.

“I can, too.” Castiel replies, fingers brushing slowly up the nape of Dean’s neck, now. Dean shivers at the touch and glances at Castiel, whose eyes are hidden by some kind of veil that is not dissimilar to the hungry look Castiel gave Dean outside the room when he first arrived. Heat creeps down Dean’s chest.

Castiel’s hands move back down to Dean’s waist and start slipping under Dean’s T-shirt, stroking at the skin underneath it. Dean has to bite down on his own purr.

Is Cas normally this affectionate with the people that he’s dating? Is it only because he’s stoned that he’s touching and looking at Dean this way?

Are Dean and Cas _dating?_

Those surrounding them have started listing all the things they feel when stoned; but Castiel is apparently no longer paying any attention: he has started kissing up and down the curve of Dean’s neck, drawing his teeth across the human’s ear. Dean is _really_ struggling not to moan, now.

“Do you ever get paranoid, Dean?” Someone asks from across the room. Dean has to take a deep breath before answering; Cas’ hands are threatening to slip down into his pants from where they play around his waist, and a sweet warmness is pooling at the base of Dean’s torso.

“Uh—when I’m high—or just in general?” Dean asks, struggling to concentrate more than he thought was physically possible.

“When high.” Meg answers.

“I—uh…” Cas has started sucking at Dean’s neck, now, and Dean can hardly _think._

“Castiel, stop distracting Dean,” Balthazar deadpans. “The poor boy is already beside himself; get a fucking room if you _so desperately_ want to fuck him.”

Dean can’t help but feel a little patronised, but Castiel leans back and mumbles a promise:

“Later.”

Dean shivers.

“Hey, we should play cards against humanity!” Garth exclaims. Somebody else cheers and a couple of excited whoops of agreement go up; several other moans erupt from the other side of the room.

“Shit game.” Ruby mutters, wrapping a blanket around herself.

“I think it’s funny.” Ava states. Dean glances to Castiel; the angel’s expression is unreadable.

“Everyone who wants to play, make a circle on the floor.” Ash starts, sliding off the bed and sitting in the centre of the room. “If not, stay where you are and fucking _be like that.”_

Garth makes a noise of agreement and joins Ash, clumsily picking up the game from a drawer beside the bed and turning on a lamp that rests there. It fills the room with a little more of the purple-ish light that has been flooding it thus far.

“Hey, Chuck’s outside, he’s brought his bong.” Vic announces from where he sits, the light of his cell reflecting off his face. Happy noises fill the room. “And he’s brought Gabriel—sorry Castiel,” He glances up and grins at Cas, who rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“As long as he stays calm, I don’t give a fuck.” Castiel shrugs. “Gabe can be… funny. Sometimes.”

“Alright, I’ve told them where we are.”

Someone knocks at the door—Gabriel and Chuck, Dean assumes. Castiel gets up and opens it, and this theory is confirmed.

“We’re playing cards against humanity!” Garth exclaims from the floor. “Care to join?”

“Absolutely!” Gabriel exclaims, sitting down next to Ash. Chuck sighs and sits down next to the grinning angel.

Joining them on the floor comes Meg, tugging a somewhat reluctant though not indignant Cassie down with her, Ava, beaming happily, and Tessa upon some persuasion, smiling graciously. On the top bunk to Dean’s left remains only Victor, Ruby sits the bottom to Dean’s right and Balthazar rests on the bed above her. All of them mumble that they are content in watching.

“Do you want to join in?” Castiel asks, mumbling the words in Dean’s ear. Dean leans into the angel without thinking.

“I don’t know how to play…” Dean shakes his head, murmuring out his response quietly. Gabriel turns around and spots Dean, his face lighting up immediately.

“Dean! I didn’t know you were in here!” He exclaims. Dean looks away, embarrassed, but Gabriel’s gaze flits between Dean and Castiel, and something delighted spreads across his features. _“Oh my_ fucking _life.”_ He says, each word, each syllable of this sentence emphasised to an impossible degree. “You two are—” He mock gasps. “When did this happen? Why? How? How did Ezekielreact?!”

Castiel groans next to Dean.

“Last night, sort of, early this afternoon, more accurately.”

“What does that mean?” Gabriel frowns. Castiel ignores him and continues.

“It happened because we both like each other, duh; I kissed Dean and asked him out, and Ezekiel doesn’t know. Does that answer all of your questions?”

“No, not at all,” Gabriel frowns indignantly. “Why doesn’t Ezekiel know?”

“Because I haven’t told him.”

“And why haven’t you told him?”

“Because he’s going to be _insufferable_ when I do.” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Anything else?”

“Can _I_ tell him?”

“No!” Castiel exclaims. The whole group jumps except Gabriel, who seems to have been expecting this reaction from Cas, and has started giggling uncontrollably.

“Why not?”

“I’ll be the one to tell him, once he cools off a bit.” Castiel sighs.

“Cools off?”

“We had a fight.”

“What about?”

“He thought that I was being mean to Dean, when I—”

 “—Was actually just fucking him.” Gabriel grins. Dean throws the pillow at his feet at Gabriel’s head—and is surprised that in the state he’s in he still has managed to hit his target square in the face—the rest of the group goes up in a cheer.

“Good one, Dean.” Ash winks at Dean from where he sits. “Gabriel, stop being insufferable.”

“Ooh, big word.” Gabriel grins. He turns to face Castiel again. “I won’t tell ‘Zeke,” He shrugs. “But you really should, at some point. This is one of those things where if he finds out by himself, he won’t like it _one_ _bit_.”

“How can you tell that?” Castiel frowns.

“I can just _tell,_ man. He doesn’t like being taken by surprise. And you two—” He gestures between Dean and Castiel. “—I _never_ saw coming. Even if you liked him back, Castiel—I thought you would’ve bitten down on the feeling until the end of days. I guess you’re not as stubborn as I believed you were.”

The group shares in a collective titter.

“That’s my way of wishing you well, by the way.” Gabriel shrugs. “And you have a collective vow of silence from all of us. Right, guys?”

The group confirms.

“Cool,” Castiel rolls his eyes.

His pocket vibrates.

“You’ve got a text…” Dean nods to Castiel.

“It’s from Ezekiel,” The angel mumbles. “…Telling me not to come back to the dorm.”

“Oh?” Dean frowns, worried.

“…Yeah,” Castiel smiles lazily. “—He’s pulled, apparently, and him and his… lover have gone over to our place.”

“So you’ve got—” Dean frowns.

“I’ll find somewhere to stay.” The angel shrugs. “No need to worry. I’ve done this to _him_ plenty of times, after all.”

“…I was gonna say, you could come back to mine if you wanted?” Dean asks. He feels nervousness burst through him immediately as his question falls from his lips; all of which isn’t helped by the fact that Castiel’s face remains disconcertingly stoic.

“That’s a very kind offer, Dean,” Castiel replies. “Though you shouldn’t feel obliged—”

“—It’s not that I feel obliged.” Dean shakes his head. “I’d like to do it—you’re out of a place to stay—and I’d like to do it.”

“Okay,” Castiel nods. “Thank you.”

“That’s fine,” Dean shrugs. Castiel’s arm has slipped back around his body.

“No pressure if you change your mind.” Castiel murmurs softly, so that the rest of the room has no chance of hearing. “No pressure if you don’t want to do anything, from there, either.”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond, so he leans forward and presses his lips to Castiel’s. Castiel responds just as Dean would have hoped he would.

They spend the next—well, Dean thinks that it’s an hour, but he can’t be sure—making out. Everyone around them seems blissfully oblivious: Castiel pulls Dean onto his lap when a fight over whose card ought to win breaks out amongst the group; sucks marks up and down his neck when Balthazar shouts at them to shut the fuck up; he starts palming at Dean when the group starts quarrelling over what game they ought to play next—Dean finally gasps and pulls back.

“Too much?” Castiel asks, removing his hands from Dean’s body entirely. Dean shakes his head quickly, almost frantically, and inhales deeply before he finds himself able to answer.

“Can we get out of here?” He asks. “Back to—” He cuts himself off because he realises that he might be coming off a little too strong; and he has already proven to Castiel how easy it is to get in his pants in the past.

“Whatever you want, Dean.” Castiel replies warmly. His hands have moved up to Dean’s elbows.

“I want that—” Dean hesitates, before getting up off Castiel’s lap. Castiel moves with Dean, getting up as he does.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m—” Dean glances around the room to make sure nobody is paying attention. His head feels foggy. As if reading his thoughts, Castiel takes a step closer to Dean and presses his forehead against the human’s.

“Are you too stoned to make the decision, right now?”

“I don’t think so…” Dean frowns and shakes his head softly. A pause. Castiel gazes patiently at Dean all through it. “…Can we get out of here, at least? I’d like some privacy.”

“Of course.” Castiel nods, expression kind. He takes Dean’s hand in his own and opens the door—after what has felt like an age everyone inside the room notices Dean and Castiel’s presence and moans at them to stop letting the smoke out; that the light outside is too bright—and in the next moment Dean is out onto the hallway and Castiel closes the door behind him. He spots Benny holding a dark brown bottle, leaning on a doorframe as he speaks quietly with someone, a soft smile gracing his lips.

“Hang on,” Dean murmurs in Castiel’s ear, letting go of the angel’s hand and slipping through the crowd, approaching his roommate.

“Dean,” Benny smiles as Dean draws near. “I didn’t know you were here, brother—I would’ve looked out for you—”

“That’s okay,” Dean shrugs, brushing his friend’s gentle concern off.

“Are you having a good time?” Benny asks in his sweet, slow drawl of a voice.

“Yeah, actually—good—” Dean’s mind is definitely elsewhere. “—Listen, Benny, is it alright if I take someone back to our place? Only—”

“That’s fine, Dean,” Benny nods, lips twitching upwards. “Not a problem. Who’re you hooking up with? Anyone I know?”

“Uh…” Dean looks away. “…You’re obviously not exiled from the room for the whole night, I just—” He starts, changing the subject.

“I get it, brother.” Benny’s hand ruffles at Dean’s hair. “Listen, you leaving now?”

“Yeah…” Dean confirms.

“Then how’bout I come back in, let’s say…” Benny glances in to the room he is almost inside at a clock on the wall of it. “…Three hours? That give you plenty of time to, uh…” He smiles with amusement. “…Get everything done?”

“That’s great, Benny—” Dean flushes with relief. “—Really, thank you—”

“Hey, thank you for warning me,” Benny beams graciously. “Means I don’t need to walk in on anything. Listen, this… person you’re hooking up with—they gonna be there when I get back? They staying the whole night?”

“I hope so,” Dean admits, sighing as he speaks. Benny laughs warmly.

“Right, I see how it is. Have you only just met them? You seem to like them quite a lot…”

“Um—I haven’t just met them.” Dean shakes his head. “—I—” He has started flushing again.

“Alright, alright, I know when I’m embarrassing you.” Benny claps Dean on the shoulder. “See you soon.”

“It’s not inconvenient for you to come back so late, is it?” Dean asks, concerned.

“Not at all.” Benny reassures. “I want to stay until this thing’s over, anyway. Or at least, ‘til it’s not fun anymore.”

Dean smiles with relief and makes his way to turn around and leave again.

“You be safe,” Benny grins after him. “And have fun!”

“Piss off,” Dean rolls his eyes, laughing. He can hear Benny’s warm chuckle behind him for a moment before he dips back into conversation with whoever it was he was speaking to before Dean interrupted.

“Everything alright?” Castiel asks as Dean approaches him again. Dean nods quickly and beams.

“Everything’s great.”

“Great,” The angel chuckles softly. He walks close behind Dean, out of the building. His fingers have hooked themselves into Dean’s belt loops again.

Out in the night air, Dean skirts around the thought that he’s never been as ready to sleep with someone as he is with Castiel, now. They say little on the walk back; only exchange a few words about Castiel’s friends, how Dean liked them, if Dean is still feeling high or if he is starting to sober up. Everything feels like the colour of the sky; a passionate, inky blue—and when Castiel presses Dean up against his door; in much the same manner as he did earlier that day; Dean thinks he sees silver stars swimming to the surface of the ink.


	12. Star Dusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sex scene ahead, like the whole thing is pretty much just smut, so.

 

Grinding up against Dean, Castiel is trying to balance passionate desire burning at his heart and abdomen with concern for Dean’s wellbeing. Littered across Dean’s neck; mingling perfectly with his countless freckles are bruises and teasing bite marks left by Castiel’s own mouth. His mind and body clouds with a heavy, sweet fog at the knowledge that it was _his_ mouth that set these marks there, _his_ lips that have kissed, _his_ teeth that have grazed the human’s skin. Dean is whining softly beneath Castiel’s mouth; Castiel can feel the human’s now surely painful hardness through his jeans, he knows what Dean wants and he badly wants to give it; but he wants this to be slow enough that Dean has as much time as he could possibly need to back out of this. He’s reiterated this point a number of times; and now Dean is growing impatient and frustrated—which is just as delightful for Castiel to observe as the human’s groans of pleasure are.

He draws his teeth across Dean’s ear.

_“Cas—”_

The human’s fingers are in his hair, they start to tug with a little more force now that Dean grows desperate.

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel asks innocently. Dean grumbles into the angel’s ear and tries to move his head so that Castiel will kiss him straight on again.

The angel doesn’t; he pulls back slightly and raises his eyebrows in the same innocent, enquiring manner at Dean; who grows even more impatient as the hands on Castiel’s shoulders try—and fail—to pull the angel any closer.

“You know,” Dean pouts—Castiel cannot contain his snort of amusement—“Benny only gave us three hours, and at this rate—”

“You’re rather impatient.” Castiel hums, grazing his nose across Dean’s.

“Cas, you’ve been grinding into me for—” He glances at his alarm clock, “— _thirty_ minutes—”

“Then let’s see if we can stretch it out to forty.” Castiel chuckles, voice rumbling low with his own desire as he presses his hips flush to Dean’s again. Dean groans and his head comes to rest on Castiel’s shoulder.

“This isn’t fair…” He starts weakly, as though he already knows it to be a lost cause. Castiel’s hands slip under Dean’s shirt and the angel’s fingers dance up Dean’s chest with deliberate, agonising tenderness.

“Oh?” Castiel asks softly, nearly whispering his words into Dean’s ear as he starts up in the slow grinding again. “You think so? And what makes you say that?”

“Cas—you’re _teasing_ me—” Dean’s voice has turned sulky, yet he rubs his hips back up against Castiel’s with every movement of the angel’s.

“Only a little,” Castiel catches Dean’s earlobe between his teeth and pulls back slowly, watching as Dean’s eyes flutter and  a silent moan is drawn from the human’s lips. “And I do it because I want to make sure that you _really_ want it…” Castiel murmurs. Dean’s breathing has turned heavy. “…Do you really want it, Dean?”

“I _do,_ Cas—”

“I’m not convinced.” Castiel hums. He presses a kiss to the ridge of Dean’s right cheekbone; watches with slow, burning pleasure as the human squirms beneath him.

“I _want_ it—”

“But do you think you deserve it?” Castiel asks, lips tracing the outline of Dean’s ear as he speaks. Suddenly Dean becomes still.

“—I’ll work for it, if you want me to.” Dean bargains, voice trembling yet decided. Castiel shakes his head.

“You don’t need to _work_ for it, Dean.”

“Then what do you _want?”_ Dean sounds as though he is about to cry. Castiel stops to observe the human.

“I want you to say it.” Castiel answers.

“Say what?”

“That you deserve it.”

Dean flushes immediately and looks away.

“I haven’t _done_ anything—”

“And it’s not a matter of you ‘doing’ things.” Castiel replies firmly, frowning as he speaks. He has Dean pressed up against the door and the human looks confused and really, very aroused. “You’re entitled to feeling good. I want to give that to you. I want you to tell me how much you deserve it.”

Dean is staring at the floor, expression meek.

“—I—”

“It’s only three words.” Castiel reasons, grazing his nose across Dean’s.

“And you’re oversimplifying it.” Dean frowns, finally moving to look up at Castiel again. “It’s not that simple, or easy—not for me.”

Castiel presses his lips together and concedes.

“Okay,” He nods. “I’m sorry. But it’s something I want you to know.”

Dean blushes again at Castiel’s words. The angel starts to kiss gently at his lips; only surface kisses, not pressing his tongue into Dean’s mouth. The human lets out a shuddering sigh; the kind that is let out after hours of crying.

“Would you get off on hearing me say it?” Dean asks, mumbling his words against Castiel’s mouth.

“Not as much as I think you would.” Castiel replies honestly. A frown quivers across Dean’s features. “But it’s okay.” Castiel shakes his head. “Just an exercise in self-love, that’s all.”

Dean takes another one of those shuddering breaths.

“—I—” He stammers out. He moves his head so that he speaks into Castiel’s ear; his voice becomes quieter, more timid, yet more even. “—I deserve this.” He manages to say, and Castiel rewards him with a heavy grind of his hips against Dean’s; Dean moans and his eyes roll back and his head presses back against the door, his face pink.

“Good,” Castiel applauds, repeating the motion. Dean groans loudly again. “Good.” He says again, grinding into Dean once more. Dean seems almost beside himself, not unable to navigate his body even to tip his head back up to kiss Castiel, but the angel has pulled him away from the door and now pushes him onto the bed, watching as Dean’s eyes open suddenly, pupils blown wide. “Say it again.” Castiel instructs, and this time Dean nearly laughs as he speaks, crawling back on the bed to allow Castiel room and opening his legs. His hands tremble as though they are considering undoing his belt and zipper, but to his credit Dean keeps them pinned to his sides, supporting him as he rests on the bed. His eyes remain trained on Castiel.

“I deserve this,” His lips twitch upwards in a way Castiel hasn’t seen them do so before; another little laugh is let out of Dean’s lips; the laugh of a child who has just said a curse word for the first time.

“Good,” Castiel repeats again, bending down to kiss Dean, tilting the human’s head up as he does. “You do.”

Dean hums happily against Castiel’s mouth.

“I do?”

“You do.” The angel repeats, laughing softly. He slips his hands under Dean’s legs and pulls the human towards him by the underside of his knee.

“Say it,” Dean mouths against the side of Castiel’s face. Castiel shivers. It’s rare that _anyone_ can elicit this response from him, and he slips his hands under Dean’s shirt again and runs his fingers underneath Dean’s waistband, confused at what it is he’s feeling. “Say it to me.”

“You deserve this,” Castiel mumbles against Dean’s skin, beginning to tug the human’s shirt up. Dean beams into the angel’s neck. Castiel is starting to feel short of breath.

“Again.”

“You deserve this.”

“Again.”

Castiel repeats the sentiment as he scatters kisses across Dean’s now bare chest. The human lets out the lightest moan possible, so soft that it is almost only a sigh. His chest shudders beneath Castiel’s lips.

“I can’t believe—” Dean almost laughs, the sound breathy and distracted as Castiel moves back up to kiss at his face and roll his hips against Dean’s. “—That you _like_ me—” Castiel chuckles at the human’s words and grazes his nose across Dean’s. “—That earlier today—” Dean’s voice is still breathy as Castiel kisses down his neck, grinding into Dean all the while, humming happily as he feels Dean’s voice catching in his throat and reverberating against Castiel’s lips, “—I thought you _hated_ me—”

“Never,” Castiel mumbles against the human’s skin. “Never.”

Dean’s hands slide up to Castiel’s head and run themselves through the angel’s hair. He pulls Castiel down so that their foreheads are pressed together and holds him there a moment, not opening his eyes. He breathes in deeply like he’s trying to absorb this moment, to inhale Castiel, and this has the hungry possessiveness curling inside Castiel’s gut again and has him grinding up against the human once more.

“When I walked in on Gadreel doing this to you,” Castiel mumbles against Dean’s mouth, kissing the human deep and hard at the intervals between his words, “I was so—” Another possessive kiss, “ _fucking_ jealous.” And another.

“Really?” Dean nearly gasps against Castiel’s mouth. It has the angel hoisting Dean’s legs around him and grinding into Dean harder than ever, and both of them let out a shuddering moan at this.

“Really.” Castiel confirms, catching his breath. “You were perfect and kissable and _fuckable,”_ He emphasises this point by slipping his arms behind Dean’s back and hugging the human into him, rutting against him. Dean groans again, lips grazing Castiel’s ear, “And you didn’t want to do any of that with me—and seeing you do it with someone else…” Castiel sighs, biting down on the jealousy flaring inside of him and pulling back, kneeling on the bed, above Dean, still lying down, as he undoes the human’s zipper and belt and begins to slowly, tortuously pull down his jeans. “…I was nearly mad with jealousy. I so badly wanted to be in Gadreel’s position.”

“Well, maybe,” Dean answers, resting on his elbows and forearms as he speaks to Castiel, “but I _definitely_ wanted to kiss and fuck you—so you’re wrong on that count.”

“Yes,” Castiel concedes, lips twitching upwards. He palms at Dean softly through the thin material of the human’s underwear. Dean’s eyes threaten to flutter closed at the touch. “Perhaps you’re right. Have you got any lube?” He asks. Dean blinks dumbly with shock at the sudden change in conversation.

“—Uh—”

Castiel grazes his hand softly up Dean’s thigh.

“Unless you’re not in the mood for that?” He raises his eyebrows at the human, open to whatever answer he may receive but _praying_ that Dean is up for fucking.

“—I’m definitely in the mood—” Dean shakes, then nods his head quickly. Fire burns through Castiel’s blood in passionate victory and excitement at this response. “—The lube—it’s in the top drawer by my bed. To the left.”

Castiel thanks Dean and reaches for it, rummaging for a moment before finding it.

“And condoms?” He raises his eyebrows at the human once again. “While I’m up?”

“—Um—” A flush is creeping down Dean’s chest. “—In the little—bag thing—”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards as he finds what he’s looking for. He turns back to Dean and crawls back on top of him, kissing Dean’s chest on the way up to his lips.

“You look very lovely like this…” He mumbles softly as he reaches Dean’s neck. He grazes his nose up the curve of it. “Even lovelier than normal; which is really saying something, you know…” He kisses up Dean’s jaw, before making his way to Dean’s cheek, before finding his lips.

Dean apparently can only blush.

“—Thank you—”

Castiel chuckles and grazes his nose against Dean’s before kneeling again and pulling Dean’s jeans off completely. He glances up to grin at Dean.

“You’ll enjoy this.” He promises, and Dean frowns for a moment in confusion, before Castiel grazes his teeth across the surface of Dean’s lower stomach, before catching the waistband of Dean’s boxer-briefs between his teeth and pulling them down.

Dean groans at the sight; his dick bobs up immediately, beads pre-come leaking from its tip. Castiel exhales at the sight and moves to mouth at the head, reminiscent of what he was doing to Dean earlier that day, and Dean trembles at the touch. Castiel taps the inside of Dean’s thighs and the human obediently, immediately opens his legs wide; Castiel applauds him—earning him another moan—and kisses at the insides of Dean’s leg, down to his knee and right up to the top of his thigh again. Now he coats his fingers in the lube and slowly, tortuously slowly, as slowly as he thinks is humanly possible—so that Dean is squirming and moaning and trembling on the mattress—begins to prep the human.

He stretches this out for so long, kissing softly at Dean’s lips and sucking more possessive marks up and down his neck all the while, that when he glances at Dean’s clock to check up on the time, he realises that Dean’s roommate—Benny—will be returning in about an hour and thirty minutes. They have somehow burnt half their time already, and Dean has felt the brunt of it; Castiel has had it easy—a sheen of sweat has appeared across Dean’s forehead and chest, delicate and veil-like; the human lets out broken little moans now at odd intervals, his hips twitch upwards into nothing and he will _beg_ Castiel at other intervals to start, to fuck him; because he thinks he’s going to _die.—_ Dean’s exact words on the matter.

Honestly, Castiel is massively flattered by this enormous exaggeration on Dean’s part. But he rips off his own shirt, eventually, tugging off his jeans and underwear, and tears open the condom packet with his teeth, making sure that Dean watches him do this so that his eyes flutter with pure need and become even more lust-blown as he observes Castiel, before rolling the condom on and bending down to kiss Dean. Castiel doesn’t miss the way that Dean tries to wriggle himself down onto the angel, before growing frustrated and reaching for Castiel’s cock to guide him in, but Castiel pulls back and holds Dean’s wrists still.

“Patience.” He instructs softly. Dean groans and tips his head back on the pillow.

“You’re _killing_ me—”

Castiel takes this moment to slide into Dean, and the human gasps and bucks his hips in surprise.

_“Fuck—”_

“I think that’s what we planned to do, yes.” Castiel leans back down over Dean, wrapping the human’s legs around his waist and rolling his hips slowly upwards. Dean moans and his eyes flutter closed, Castiel takes the moment to graze his fingers down Dean’s chest before massaging slowly at Dean’s balls. “This good for you?” He enquires, grazing his nose across Dean’s. Dean’s nails scrape down the length of Castiel’s back, clinging on to the angel harder than life itself. His head rolls back onto the pillow as though he trusts Castiel to give him what he needs—which is massively arousing, Castiel finds, shivering again—and Dean’s eyes flutter closed, a tiny smile tracing itself across the human’s dark pink, kiss swollen lips.

“So good for me…” Dean mumbles, chest rising and falling at uneven intervals. “…Yeah,” He groans again. “— _So_ good—”

Castiel’s free arm keeps him balanced up on the bed, his fingertips tracing at the small of Dean’s back. Dean’s hands have moved up to Castiel’s shoulders, he holds on so tightly it seems rather as though the human is afraid he is going to slip of the face of the earth. Castiel has settled on a pace; rather slow but deliberately deep, _very_ deep and hard, he is delighted by Dean’s reaction to it, the nearly silent moans now escaping his lips , the distracted, light-then-heavy pants, the fingers moving to fist at Castiel’s hair.

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel groans into Dean’s neck, inhaling the scent of the skin here, memorising the angles with which it curves at.

_“Castiel—”_

Castiel’s name on Dean’s lips sends pinpricks darting up the angel’s skin and insides that move with such determined direction, like arrows fired, straight to his groin. He moans again, the sound shuddering and fuzzy in his own ears, and traces his tongue across Dean’s skin.

“Say my name again,” He instructs softly, though something heavy and needy remains fixed in the undertone of his voice. Dean’s hands fist ever tighter at Castiel.

 _“Cas—”_ Dean moans. “Cas—”

The angel moves his hand to pump at Dean’s dick with the same rhythm he moves his hips at; he can feel himself getting close as the seconds, then minutes filled with groans and sighs and kisses grow longer, move forward; and he slows down until it is almost agony for him, until he is sure Dean thinks it is killing him—because he knows that when he comes it will feel _that much better_ and Dean will be even more beside himself than he is now if Castiel manages to stretch this out to just the right agonising point.

“Cas, I—” Dean is trembling and his voice sounds caught on the edge of tears, expression lost to pleasure, throat torn to rags by cries and moans of pleasure—“—I—”

Castiel knows what’s coming; this doesn’t deplete any of the joy at seeing Dean take several deep, stuttering gasps, his eyes opening wide then squeezing completely shut; the feeling of Dean’s nails scraping hard down Castiel’s back once again—the fucking _gorgeous_ feeling of Dean tensing all around him, Dean’s come spilling onto his hand—

And in the next instant, Castiel cannot contain the pleasure building at the base of his torso either: he bites down onto Dean’s shoulder and comes inside the human; the entire universe turns white and wispy as though made of satin snow or liquid moonlight, all his muscles contract and he moans into Dean’s flesh, grinding into him and adoring the sweetened sensation. He sees stars behind his closed eyes. When he opens them and looks into Dean’s, smiling at their corners, wide with happy shock—at what? Feeling so good?—Castiel can still see starlight; only filtered through the fresh green leaves of a forest in spring.

 

…

 

Dean has almost whited out.

All he knows is Castiel’s eyes; his come is drying on his stomach and his body is laced with cooling sweat and he wants to drown in the oceans that are Castiel’s eyes. The world is made out of smoke; it is intangible and it fills Dean with the familiar golden threads of sunlight; silver threads of starlight—he can’t think for pleasure—he’s never had an orgasm, and afterglow this intense. Castiel’s head is resting against Dean’s; forehead to forehead they lie, Castiel on top of Dean, staring into each other’s eyes. Dean has lost track of all time. Have they been here a moment? A lifetime? He can’t speak to ask. The threads of pleasure, silver and gold, have stretched themselves loosely across the entirety of Dean’s body, they tangle and writhe and make love to one another; Dean’s head is lolling back against the pillow and he thinks that if he isn’t careful, he’s going to fall in love with Castiel any second.

Maybe he already has.

Maybe he already has?

He feels tempted to become panicked by this thought—it leaves him so open and so vulnerable, but Cas—

He’s _perfect._ To Dean, at least. He’s proven himself to be so. He’s never had someone be so considerate, so good and giving and tender yet rough with him; Dean wants to bury himself inside these feelings rather than bury them inside himself—for the first time in forever he’s starting to feel like he’s _enough—_ and sure, he’s having these thoughts post-fucking- _amazing-_ orgasm in his bed with the most sensitive, frank, beautiful, intelligent person he’s ever met lying on top of him, but that doesn’t mean these thoughts don’t _mean_ something. Sure, it’s easier to think this way _now_ than it is out there in the terrifying, open world where Dean is left entirely vulnerable, but—

The threads of light inside Dean start dancing at the point of his skin where Castiel grazes his nose.

“Was that good?” The angel speaks at last, his breathing now even but _deep,_ lethargic and heavy.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, unable to break his gaze away from Castiel’s, magnetic as it is. “That was—that was the best—” Maybe he’s being too honest, but he continues anyway, “—The best I’ve ever had.” He laughs giddily. Castiel beams and presses a kiss to the underside of Dean’s jaw.

“I’m glad I managed to do something right, then.” He chuckles softly.

“Cas, you did _everything—”_ Dean doesn’t get to finish this sentence because the angel has started kissing him again.

“You’re wonderful.” Castiel sighs softly when he pulls back. He doesn’t smile, but his eyes are so frank and honest that now Dean _has_ to look away. The angel presses a kiss to each of Dean’s eyelids before slowly pulling himself out of the human. He discards the condom in the bin and turns back to Dean.

Dean recalls how Cas’s wings were flared so far behind him while they were fucking, so possessive and hungry in nature; massive and jet black and perfect.

The world still feels as though it is made of smoke.

It smells of the incense Castiel burns in his room.

Dean’s eyes are fluttering closed.

Castiel notes this aloud and grazes his nose against the human’s. Dean can only giggle and nudge back.

Now the angel moves to rest by Dean’s side, lying on his side and pulling the human closer towards him with delightful tenderness. Dean sighs and tilts his head closer to Castiel’s.

“Your bed is a little smaller than mine,” Castiel mumbles against the side of Dean’s face. His voice has a smile in it, though Dean can’t muster the energy to open his eyes to observe it. “So we’re going to have to squeeze together a little closer than we normally would.”

“I’m okay with squeezing…” Dean mumbles into the air of his room. Castiel chuckles and kisses his cheek with a gentleness Dean doesn’t think he’s ever encountered in a lover before.

“Perhaps my bed is wider on account of my wings.” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s skin.

“They are really big.” Dean sighs softly, turning in to face Castiel. The angel snorts softly. “What?” Dean frowns against Cas’s chest.

“As far as angels are concerned, that’s a pretty big compliment, Dean.” The angel chuckles into Dean’s hair.

“What kind of compliment?”

“It’s difficult to explain…”

“What, like, bigger wings, bigger dick?”

“Something like that.” Castiel nearly giggles. He squeezes Dean’s body against his own, and in the next moment has wrapped his wings around Dean’s body. It wraps the darkness around Dean like a blanket, too; and Dean can’t contain the happy hum this motion elicits from him—he feels so _safe,_ and it’s perfect and he tells Castiel he thinks that it is, and that he wants this moment to last forever.

Castiel murmurs that he wants that, too, and pulls Dean’s covers over both of them, now. Dean mumbles that he thinks he’s about to fall asleep. Castiel’s hands move—one to play softly with the tufts of his hair; a touch that has Dean nearly purring, and one to draw intricate patterns across his back. Dean thinks absently that this is how he could spend every night for _years,_ for the rest of his _life_ —

This is the thought that pushes the rocking boat he lies on across the sea, to sleep, drifting off to a heavy sleep filled with bright eyes.


	13. Seeing Daylight

 

Sunlight filters through the cracks in the pale blue curtains of the room. Bleary eyed, Castiel squints at the rays, ebbing light onto the floor with a kind of timid gentleness that has him thinking particularly of the curious mannerisms of—

He glances down at the human now, head still pressed firmly to the pillow, apparently fast asleep. The human barely moves, but for a slow breathing that has the body resting next to Castiel rising and falling with gentle sleepiness. As with each of Dean’s other forms, Castiel wants to memorize the human like this. He  can just make out one of Dean’s closed eyes, a fraction of his nose; pressed snugly against the pillow’s surface, the corners of Dean’s mouth. He brushes a few strands of Dean’s hair back from the human’s temples. He thinks absently how dangerous all of what he is doing is.

He has slept with a human for the first time.

He has gone on a date with a human for the first time.

He has kissed a human for the first time, and hungered for more.

He’s told a human he likes them— _really_ likes them—and he really _really_ likes Dean.

He’s in a bedroom with two humans right _now—_ he glances up, across at Dean’s roommate—Benny—who lies motionless on his bed. Castiel wonders absently what time it is—it _must_ be after eight; the sun has risen and is now bright in the sky… The angel worries at his lip. For a fluttering moment when the world and everything in it seems to have been tossed up in the air, Castiel considers fleeing the room and returning to his own bedroom. How it is this would tear Dean apart is not something Castiel can bring himself to think about; but his thoughts are still flying far away from the safety of the ground and now Castiel considers what he would have thought of himself, two years ago, if he’d found out he was going to get himself into a _relationship_ with a human.

He wonders what it is he wants from Dean.

He wonders if it’s essentially what Dean wants from him—and thinks for a terrifying moment that this relationship, with a _human,_ no less, might be the most serious one he’s ever had… But then he considers the fact that the relationship—if that’s what he can call what he and Dean seem to… _have_ —and the relationship’s progression into something serious, _really_ serious, might not be a bad thing. Could it even be a good thing?

Well, he likes Dean. A lot.

And it’s not so much a case of _‘might not’_ as _‘definitely won’t be a bad thing’—_ but still, Castiel is _awful_ with emotions and Dean seems to have a stunning amount of them, whatever his pretensions about his feelings might be. Most of the people Castiel has dated have only really displayed three feelings around him, and very base ones at that—arousal, amusement, and disappointment when Castiel inevitably severs ties. He doesn’t like commitment—it’s not that he’s afraid of it… he could go into a serious relationship any time, it’s just that he’s never _wanted_ to. But what’s the point of commitment, anyway? Surely it just limits people? And relationships tend to be complicated and messy and _icky,_ for want of a better word, and Castiel is _not_ afraid of commitment, it’s just that he hadn’t met the right person until—

He glances down at Dean again and his heart cramps up inside his chest.

And the feeling terrifies him.

 

Dean stretches out along the length of Castiel, back clicking a couple of times before he presses his head into Castiel’s chest rather than against his pillow. The angel’s heart begins hammering against his ribcage, knocking the air clean out of his lungs with every frightened beat, until Dean frowns and glances up at him. He looks as though he is about to ask something, but the sound of Benny sitting up from across the room divides his attention.

“Dean, you awake?”

Dean pulls out of Castiel’s arms, turning where he lies and peering out from where he has been hidden by the angel’s wings.

“Yeah,” He blinks, ruffling his hair a moment and stretching again. “You alright?”

“Just checkin’ up on you,” Benny shrugs. He gets out of his bed and begins to dress. “You gettin’ out of bed any time soon?” He asks, amusement lacing his tone with a light kind of warmth. Dean coughs out a laugh, slightly nervous and embarrassed, and states that he doesn’t know for certain.

“Alright,” Benny shrugs in response. “Is your uh—date—awake?”

Dean begins to reply, still obviously embarrassed, but Castiel lifts his head to look at Benny, ready give some kind of acknowledgement as greeting as he shifts his wings slightly, still cramped on the small bed—but Benny’s eyes widen instantly with some kind of bewildered disbelief, and it throws the angel entirely.

 _“Dean—”_ Benny’s gaze snaps back to Dean’s face, his expression still indignant with disbelief. “Last night—when you said you were going to—”

Castiel frowns softly—he’s never seen Benny lost for words before; he’d always considered the boy rather more sensible than others his age, better with words, not one to be speechless or prone to gaping in such a nonplussed manner as he is now.

“—You hooked up with _Castiel—”_

Dean tenses and nods, embarrassed. Castiel notices his ears reddening.

“I, uh—”

“Dean you spent so long saying that he _hated_ you—”

“You talked about me to Benny?” Castiel asks, lips twitching upwards. His heart is warmed with something new and quietly bright, it trembles with hushed excitement intermingled with joy. Dean reddens further and looks away, shifting away from Castiel on the bed and pulling the covers tighter over him as he sits up slightly.

“—When did this _happen?”_ Benny asks, ignoring Castiel’s question, still looking at Dean. “You said he _hated—”_

“You’ve already said that, Benny,” Dean mutters, looking down at his lap, his hands playing with themselves aimlessly. Castiel wonders if he ought to interrupt simply to assure Dean that he doesn’t feel offended by any of this conversation, as seems to be the human’s fear.

“But you haven’t explained anything.” Benny huffs out a laugh, finally calming down and sitting back onto his bed. “What’s going on? You could’ve told me at the party what was going on, at least—what harm would it have done? And weren’t you telling the truth when you said Castiel—”

Castiel has had enough of being spoken of as though he were not in the room.

“—Dean misread a couple of signals, I suppose you could say.” He states. This doesn’t seem to do it for Dean, who glances at Castiel, frowning.

“You gave out a lot of _false_ signals, Cas.” His tone is very indignant. “You didn’t leave me with a lot of room to think anything _other_ than the—well, misconception, I guess—that you hated my guts.”

Castiel is about to argue back, but Benny interrupts his thoughts.

 _“Cas?”_ He repeats.

Dean reddens again.

Benny begins to laugh.

“You call him Cas, now?” He glances at Castiel. “Is he the only one who’s allowed to do that?” Castiel frowns, unsure of how to respond—and startlingly certain that Dean _is_ the only one he’d allow to call him Cas—but Benny continues and distracts his thoughts. “And was last night the first time the two of you hooked up? When did all this—” He gestures to the pair, “—happen, exactly? Because…” He doesn’t seem to know how to end this sentence, so he simply sighs and looks away, shaking his head with disbelief. The sunlight creeps onto his face. He is still smiling with amusement.

“Last night was the first time we hooked up.” Dean looks away from both Benny and Castiel, though there is no shame in his voice. “It happened—well, two nights ago, I guess? Cas—kissed me.”

“But _why_?”

“Why do you think?” Dean frowns.

“You were always talking about how much he hated you—for about—I don’t know, five months or something? You talked so much about him I know _everything_ about the guy—”

Dean glares Benny into silence.

Castiel’s lips have twitched upwards again.

“I kissed him because I was tired of pretending that I hated him, when in fact, I think he’s absolutely brilliant.” Castiel grazes his fingers against Dean’s shoulder blades. Dean’s body shifts, startled, though Castiel guesses not unpleasantly so, under the touch. “He—wasn’t _misreading_ things, as such, when he thought I hated him—I was… Well, I was misleading him, frankly. And myself, I suppose. But I was mean to do so and it was very wrong of me: I wasn’t being honest nor was I being kind or fair—so, two nights ago I kissed him, but I _still_ wasn’t really being honest or fair—and yesterday afternoon I told him the truth. That I really _do_ like him, and have done so for a long while. Does that explain it?”

“I guess…” Benny blinks. “Wow, Dean—you must be fucking beside yourself with happiness, right now.” He chuckles. Dean seems to struggle to keep his face even. He looks down. “And you, Castiel,” Benny looks back up. “You must be a weirdly good actor—everyone was so convinced—”

“—I was trying to convince myself,” Castiel shrugs, laughing, “more than anything else. But I’m done doing that. It wasn’t fair on Dean.”

“No,” Benny admits. He glances back at Dean. “I wanna have a bigger talk with you about this later,” he laughs, shaking his head. “But I can tell I’m embarrassing you. I can’t believe you kept this so under wraps last night! You could’a told me, you know—scared the life out of me, seeing you with Casti _el.”_ He emphasises the last syllable of Castiel’s name rather pointedly, as though it holds some kind of hidden significance. Castiel searches for something but cannot seem to find any; he consequently continues to feel rather perplexed. “But I’ve gotta go to class, so see you. Both of you.” He glances at Castiel, warmth sparking in his eyes, before picking up his bag and exiting, waving to them both. Dean seems reluctant to turn back around to face Castiel, so the angel begins kissing across his shoulders. This seems to have the desired effect, Dean begins to turn to face Castiel and lets out a long, soft sigh.

“Do you need to be anywhere, soon?” Castiel asks quietly, words muffled into Dean’s skin. The human sighs again.

“In about an hour,” he admits. “I have a class.”

“You could cut it?” Castiel suggests, dragging the backs of his fingers up Dean’s sides. The human arches out under the touch.

“You’re the last person I’d have expected to hear that from, Cas,” Dean admits, laughing. Castiel chuckles softly against Dean’s shoulder.

“Yes, I think I can understand why.” He nods. “So that’s a no?”

“I’m paying a buttload of money for this education, Cas, I might as well make the most of it.” Dean points out.

“That’s certainly one way of looking at it.” Castiel nods. “Alright—you said you’ve got an hour?”

“An hour.” Dean nods. “Just about.”

“Then we’ve got time.” Castiel nods thoughtfully a moment.

“Time?” Dean raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“What do you _think_ I mean?” Castiel asks. A soft smirk plays across his lips.

Dean turns to face Castiel, giggling slightly. The angel’s hands move to slot into Dean’s; he splays out his fingers along the human’s for a moment, adoring the sensation, before glancing back up to Dean’s face.

“What do you want to do?” Dean asks.

“What do _you_ want to do?”

“Cas—”

“I mean it.” Castiel grazes his nose across Dean’s. “You choose.”

Dean presses his forehead against Castiel’s and closes his eyes.

“Could you suck my dick again?” He asks, cheeks tinging with pink at this request, huffing out the words in an awkward laugh as though he half expects Castiel to deny him. As if Castiel could _ever…_

The angel confirms by sucking marks down Dean’s neck again.

“By the time I’m done with you,” He hums, referring to the marks as he speaks, “ _everyone_ on campus is going to know that you’re taken.” Dean groans appreciatively at the thought. “And that I _don’t_ want to share you.” Castiel draws his teeth across Dean’s shoulder. The human moans again and his fingers find their way into Castiel’s hair.

It’s early days, the angel reminds himself—but he really, _really_ likes Dean.

It’s early days, but he’s starting to think that maybe ‘like’ just isn’t going to do the human justice.

 

…

 

Cas _basically_ admitted that he and Dean were exclusive, today.

Sort of.

 _“I don’t want to share you”—_ could that mean what Dean _wants_ it to mean? Or is he just reading too far into this?

He sighs and kicks at the dirt.

But what if he’s not? And Dean wants to be exclusive with Castiel—if exclusive means serious. Even if it doesn’t—he can’t stand the thought of Castiel going out and kissing and fucking other people. He wants it to be _just_ Dean that the angel does that to. Is that bad? Is it jealous?

It probably is. It sounds unhealthy. Maybe it’s obsessive, it could be—

His pocket buzzes. It’s Ezekiel.

                _Want to hang out tonight?_

He sighs—it’s mean, but he had hoped that it would be Castiel texting him. He had also hoped to be hanging out with Castiel tonight—but if Cas is set on keeping up this lie to Ezekiel until he isn’t anymore, and he wants to tell ‘Zeke the truth about himself and Dean—then Dean is going to have to play along for as long as it takes. Even if it doesn’t feel great.

                _Sure._

He replies. And adds:

_What do you wanna do?_

Ezekiel replies in an instant.

                _Get food? I don’t know.  
                It feels like we haven’t spent any time together lately!_

Dean snorts.

_You’re so needy, Zeke._

Ezekiel’s response is littered with profanities and is very amusing for Dean to read.

So it’s pretty much decided, then—he can’t spend the evening with Castiel; it’s unlikely that Ezekiel will spend the night out so that Dean is able to sleep with Castiel, and it would be rude to ask Benny to do what he did the night before for Dean and Castiel. So today is either going to be completely free of the angel, or Dean is going to have to cram in time somewhere for Cas—would Cas be up for that? Would Cas even _mind_ not seeing Dean at all, today?

He gets another text.

This time it _is_ Castiel—his heart sings.

_Want to meet up for lunch?_

Dean beams as he responds.

_Totally. What do you have in mind?_

An hour or so later, and he is lying down, head in the grass, next to Castiel, eating sandwiches. They’re looking at the clouds and telling each other what shapes they can see, hands tangled softly in one another. It’s super lame, Dean knows—he feels so fucking immature—but Cas is making it all _so great_ and he’s starting to not worry about whatever it is their relationship is; because he’s _happy—_ and surely that’s all that matters?

His insides feel as light as the clouds he is spending so much time looking at.

“Okay, that one’s a horse.” Castiel guides Dean’s hand to point at a certain place in the sky. “A weird short one, but it’s a horse.”

“A _horse?”_ Dean repeats incredulously, snorting loudly.

“You disagree?”

“You think it’s a _horse?!”_

“I did say it was a weird short one.”

“ _You’re_ a weird short one.”

Castiel pushes Dean, who bursts out laughing.

“What do _you_ see, then?”

“Me? I see a blob. That cloud doesn’t look like _anything.”_

“You’re not playing this right.” Castiel replies, stubbornly.

“You’re just trying to see things where there’s fucking nothing—”

“No, I am not—see, it looks like a horse rearing up onto its hind legs. It’s so _obvious—”_

Dean starts laughing at how frustrated Cas sounds.

“Don’t mock me.” The angel glares. “You can’t say it doesn’t look like _anything—”_

“But what should I do when a cloud really _doesn’t_ look like anything?”

“You should use your imagination, duh.”

“Fine.” Dean sighs, grinning despite himself. “See that one? That one looks like a fish.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous.” Castiel shakes his head.

“What are you talking about?” Dean can’t stop giggling, and can’t but adore how impassioned Castiel is getting by all of this. “It’s totally a fish! Why can’t you see it?”

“I can’t see it at all. I think you’re being ridiculous.” Castiel repeats. Dean nearly chokes at the pout spread across the angel’s face.

“You’re so immature,” He grins, unable to stop laughing. “ _Look_ at you, poutin’ away—you look like a _kid—”_

 _“You’re_ the one giggling.” Castiel glares.

“I’m not giggling—” Dean has sat up somewhat to reason with Castiel.

“And you’re seeing fishes where there are none.” Castiel sits up a little, too.

“It’s a fish, Cas, I’m telling you.” Dean shakes his head. “ _Look—”_ He points to the cloud. “That little triangle-y-shape—”

“—That’s not a triangle—”

“That’s why I said _triangle-y-shape,_ Cas, fucking hell—” Dean rolls his eyes, still laughing about how suddenly grumpy Castiel has become, “—that bit is the fin. See?” He guides Castiel’s hand to it. The angel squints, his expression hardening, and it’s at this that Dean knows he’s won.

“And _that_ bit,” Dean guides Castiel’s hand again, “That’s the head. See? And the tail is—”

Castiel withdraws his hand sharply, pouting again.

“It’s _not_ a fish.”

“You really don’t like losing, do you?” Dean laughs.

“We’re talking about the shape of clouds, Dean—there are no winners or losers—”

“Fine, then you don’t like being wrong.”

“Does anyone?” The angel frowns.

“Some people can live with it, though it might sound strange to you.” Dean chortles, turning to face Castiel, now. They are both sat up, almost no space lies between them.

Castiel blinks frustratedly for a moment.

“Well,” He sputters slightly, “I’m not wrong _anyway._ It’s not a fish.”

“You’re impossible.” Dean bursts out laughing. “Why’re you taking this so seriously?”

“I’m not—”

“Cas.” Dean pulls an unconvinced face. The angel sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Fine.” He states begrudgingly. “It’s a fish.”

Dean beams at this victory.

“Now, was that so hard to admit?” He teases. Castiel turns to face him again and pulls a tortured expression.

“Almost impossible.” He states, completely deadpan, before his lips are twitched upwards with the slightest smile. Dean takes the opportunity to lean forward and kiss the angel. With this, Castiel starts laughing—both of them do—against one another’s mouths—until Castiel has pushed Dean back onto the grassy floor and is nearly lying on top of him as they kiss for a blissful eternity.

“Can I see you again, tonight?” Castiel asks, pulling back and looking intently into Dean’s eyes with his own, fiercely passionate ones. Dean had once mistaken that passion for hate. Now it makes his insides crumple and fill with something new, something that has Dean feeling both weak and strong and as though nothing except staring back at Castiel matters in all the rest of the world.

“Ezekiel asked me if I could hang out with him.” Dean admits, face lining with worry. “—Sorry—”

“That’s alright.” Castiel shakes his head, brushing Dean’s anxious apology aside. “It’s my loss, his gain.” He grazes his nose against Dean’s. “So there’s no way of me seeing you tonight?”

“I don’t think so…” Dean confesses—he starts apologising again, but Castiel repeats his earlier sentiment and kisses Dean again.

“Don’t worry about it.” He mumbles. “Waiting to be able to see you again—like _that—”_ He emphasises what exactly he means by this by kissing Dean deeply and passionately for a moment, “it’s going to make the next time I _do_ even better.” He kisses the ridge of Dean’s cheekbone. Dean thinks for a dark, cold moment that he isn’t worthy of this kind of tenderness. He looks down, face crumpling with his insides. “And that’s really sayingsomething, by the way.” Castiel presses his forehead against Dean’s. Dean’s lips twitch reluctantly upwards.

“Tomorrow night?” He asks, looking back up at Castiel and dragging his hand up to rest at the back of Cas’s head.

“I’ll think of something to get Ezekiel out for the night.” Cas’s smile is so soft it is almost unnoticeable. “And we can do anything you like. Even if that’s just talking. Or just sitting together.”

Dean sighs, smiling, and kisses Castiel again, giving in to whatever it is he feels at this moment.

“Alright.” He nods. “That sounds good.”

“Great.” Castiel beams, now. “Do you need to be anywhere, soon?”

“I’ve got some time to kill.” Dean shrugs, checking the time.

“Good,” Castiel smiles.

“Good?”

“I can start kissing you again.”

Dean feels as bright and warm as sunlight for the next few hours. The effects last longer and feel better than anything he has ever known.


	14. Song for an Old Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't lie, yes I am very proud of this super speedy update.
> 
> I can't remember if there are any chapter warnings needed for this one - maybe just hints at physical abuse in the past, and tasteful nudity towards the end of the chapter. I hope you all enjoy.

 

It has been a week of long walks at evening and morning with Dean, of getting stoned and talking about life with Dean, of drinking outside under the starlight with Dean and kissing him softly, of sneaking back to either of their rooms and fucking until they fall asleep, of meeting for lunch, of watching movies in bed together, of sitting in the library together, of reading on the floor together: and Castiel is already thinking that he wants the next years of his life to be exactly the same as this week.

On Tuesday, he and Dean spent hours together in Dean’s room, studying, wrapped around each other. Castiel helped Dean revise by quizzing the human, by listening to Dean’s explanations of of different things, by letting Dean teach him. Castiel explained some of his history course to Dean—about fascism and the nuances of politics, particularly political history—while Dean replicated a painting from one of his books in pencil.

“Do you like art, Cas?”

“Visual art, do you mean? As in, sculptures, paintings, drawings – that kind of thing?” Castiel enquires.

“That kind of thing, yeah.” Dean confirms, nodding.

“I can’t say I’m any kind of expert on it.” Castiel replies honestly, laughing softly. “But I enjoy it, rather a lot, if that makes sense.”

“Of course it does.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to a gallery with me.” Dean replies. He pushes the book he is copying out of a little closer to Castiel, pointing to a painting in it. “I want to go see this,” He taps the page, “and draw it. Being able to see it up close, if that makes sense.”

“That makes sense.” Castiel nods. Dean looks up from the page and smiles. Castiel takes the opportunity to press a gentle kiss to the human’s lips. “Perfect sense.” He nods again, looking down at the page.

“Cool.” Dean beams in response. “It might get a little boring for you, so—”

“—Definitely not.” Castiel shakes his head. “I can’t imagine finding anything boring about watching you do art. Especially when you _are_ art _already—”_

Dean bumps shoulders with Castiel at this, rolling his eyes at this rather horrific cliché on the angel’s part; but Castiel refuses to even apologise for it. He kisses Dean’s temple and asks the human who his favourite artist was.

“That’s a big question, Cas.” Dean laughs honestly, shaking his head. “Like, really big—how would you feel if I asked you who your favourite _author_ was? Or what about activist?”

“I’d list all the ones I loved the most, and why I loved them.” Castiel replies frankly. “Though it would be difficult to put them into numerical order, I’ll give you that.”

“You talk so strangely sometimes.” Dean hums, amused. Castiel is the one to bump Dean’s shoulder, this time.

“So, do what I just suggested. List all the ones you love the most. And why.”

“Alright—but I feel like I don’t know anywhere _near_ enough to do that with the right amount of expertise. There are so many out there, you know?”

“Yes,” Castiel chuckles softly, “I suppose there are.”

“I’ll just go with painters—not sculptors.”

“That’s fine by me.” Castiel shrugs. “Which ones?”

“Well, Van Gogh, I feel like I _have_ to start out with.”

“And why’s that?” Castiel asks, heart filling with warmth simply watching Dean speak about what he loves. He notices the way Dean’s eyes crimple ever so slightly at their corners with affection as he speaks, how the human’s pupils have dilated with interest, his words becoming more rounded as he speaks with warmth and excitement, his gestures more animated, his face more expressive.

“His work is so _beautiful,”_ Dean sighs. “I know that sounds ridiculously sentimental, but in like, the simplest way possible, it’s all so pretty. It’s wonderful: it’s swirls of colour that like—have you heard of synaesthesia? When all your senses are confused to the extent that they’re actually _broadened_ and sound becomes taste, colour becomes sound, touch becomes colour—you get it. Anyway, his art is like _watching_ synaesthesia happen; and it’s all so animated that you can almost see it moving—and even in his earlier, darker ones, like The Potato Eaters—it’s like as he was painting them, he was comforting them, you know? Does that make sense? They look sad—but it’s like the artist has touched them, warmed them just by taking down their image.”

Castiel is beaming. Dean doesn’t notice.

“And he was so _sad—_ and that in itself is so sad, because he was so great. Do you know what his last words were? Cas—they were ‘ _The sadness will last forever…’_ How fucking heartbreaking?! Doesn’t that just make you wanna cry? This amazing guy—this impossibly talented, brilliant dude—he didn’t have any idea of how great he was, and he was so sad for all his life—it’s just…” He sighs, looking as though he is tearing up. “Someone that great doesn’t deserve that. Obviously nobody does—but _Vincent?_ He really didn’t.”

“I agree.” Castiel nods.

“And you know what they think really happened, when he died? They don’t think it was a suicide, anymore—although he was definitely suicidal at points in his life—apparently some kids were playing out in a field with a gun, and they accidently shot him—and he didn’t want them to get into any trouble, Cas, how fucking heartbreakingly kind is this: he didn’t want them to get into any trouble, so he said he shot himself, just to _protect_ them. I wanna cry about that, Cas, it’s so _kind_ and he knew hardly any kindness in his life—did you know he used to skip meals just so he could afford to buy paint for his paintings? And not so he could sell them—he literally only sold _one_ painting in his lifetime. Just one! Can you believe that?! He did it because he _loved_ it. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna do things because I love them. I want to be like Van Gogh—but happy, obviously. And at points I’m sure he was happy. Did you know how much he loved his brother? So much, he’s buried next to him. And even though he was so sad, he made such _beautiful_ things—made things that had the power to make people so _happy—”_

Castiel has started kissing Dean. He has surged forwards and dragged the human towards him—but Dean, to Castiel’s great amusement and a huge flowering of affection inside his heart, complains loudly and pulls back, frowning at the angel.

“Cas, don’t interrupt!” He protests, glaring at the angel. “You asked me a question—I was talking about _Van Gogh—”_

Castiel supresses his laughter, but still can’t stop himself from smirking.

“You’re fucking impossible.” Dean shakes his head. “You don’t _interrupt_ someone when they’re talking about _art,_ Cas, it’s just not acceptable.”

“I’m very sorry.” Castiel shakes his head solemnly. Dean rolls his eyes but is apparently too caught up in himself to find good reason to stop.

“So that’s Van Gogh,” Dean continues, shaking his head. “Though we’ve barely scratched the surface with him—but I also really love Monet. First of all, if you look at photographs of Monet, you’ll see that he has really kind eyes. I just think he would’ve been a nice person, because of that. He looks really friendly. He was another impressionist; he did such lovely, almost ethereal paintings. Like, they were so beautiful it’s almost like they’re not there. They look so delicate and soft, like clouds or air. His brushstrokes are like wisps, they almost don’t exist. And where you got motion with Van Gogh, you get such a flawless stillness to Monet; like he’s captured a moment in time: an exact moment—pinpointed it, captured it, and then painted it. And it still _moves_ ; it almost _shimmers—_ but it’s like time is standing still. And he like, _started_ impressionism, which is probably my favourite movement of all time. And he struggled with depression, too, and poverty, and he wrote to a friend saying  something about being all worn out, and then said ‘My life has been nothing but a failure, and all that's left for me to do is to destroy my paintings before I disappear’—Can you believe that? _Monet_ thought that.”

“Artists seem to be rather sad.” Castiel observes.

“But they take their sadness and don’t turn it into anger or hate, they make it something beautiful.” Dean sighs. “I think that’s just about the kindest thing a person can do in this life.”

Castiel watches Dean quietly.

“I hadn’t even thought of it that way.” He admits. “But you might be right.”

“Klimt was cool,” Dean continues, apparently utterly unaware of what a profound thought he just shared as though it were absolutely nothing, “Frida Kahlo was fucking awesome, not just in how she painted or how well she painted, but she made her _life_ art; she was a fucking _revolutionary.”_

Castiel beams.

“Yes, I quite agree.” He nods. “She was absolutely brilliant.”

“Here’s a cool quote from her—she said ‘ _I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best’._ That’s so interesting—like, think about it—the only person you’re guaranteed to always have in life is yourself. The only love you’re guaranteed to get is the love you have from yourself, and really there’s nothing wrong with that, there’s no shame in that. And Frida Kahlo suffered a lot of trauma in her life, actually, but she still managed to practice self-love so well, I think. She was fucking awesome, and political, and cool as hell, and—”

“—I _so badly_ want to kiss you, Dean.” Castiel laughs honestly. Dean seems to slide suddenly back into reality, and he frowns at Castiel again as though he is being impossibly rude, and then pulls an expression that seems to be saying _“Well, if you must.”_

Castiel pulls at the thought that Dean is the most interesting person he has met in this university. Maybe in his whole life.

 

…

 

Wrapped around Dean’s waist are a pair of arms, hugging the human tightly against a warm body. Draped over one of Dean’s legs rests a velvet-soft, jet black wing. Fingers brush lightly at his stomach. He knows that Castiel has been awake for some time; he felt the angel hug him tighter against himself and press a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck about an hour ago, drifted off to sleep and woke up once more since then. Castiel has been stroking his skin gently since that moment. The angel doesn’t seem to like touching Dean in this, such an affectionate and tender manner, when he thinks the human is awake. Dean often wonders why.

Perhaps it’s because of the part of Castiel that still dislikes Dean for being a human: Castiel has reconciled this with himself through only showing Dean the tenderest of affections when he thinks the human won’t be able to experience them, to recognise them. Maybe it’s because Castiel is just as afraid of how he feels as Dean is, and so is tiptoeing about his feelings as though it’s as much a secret to himself and Dean as it is to everyone else.

He feels a gentle sigh against the back of his neck. It is warm and ruffles lightly the hairs on his head. He lets his eyes flutter closed once more and considers how perfect life would be if Castiel would be like this with him all the time.

He wonders again how serious he and Castiel are. He wonders if Castiel has been seeing other people in between his time with Dean—the thought has Dean flooding with irreconcilable anxiety and concern; yet he tries to remind himself that it is almost certainly unfounded: at every seeming spare moment that Castiel finds himself in possession of, he has wanted to spend this time with Dean.

Conversation with the angel is easy now. Where Dean had once been so unable to communicate with Castiel out of fear caused by his own attraction to the angel, he now finds himself unable to stop—babbling on in a manner that he’s certain must be agonizingly frustrating. Yet Castiel doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

And where Cas had once given Dean only one word answers, ignoring the human the rest of the time, until this relationship slowly turned into something a little more civil, then friendly, before souring out of jealousy again—now the angel will vent to Dean for hours about something that angered him that day, will gush about his sister and how he loves her, will recite his favourite poems to Dean and ask the human to pick out his own favourite. Dean thinks he could write a book about Castiel and still have myriads of information and anecdotes and facts left over.

When Ezekiel is in class and Dean and Castiel are free, they will lie in Cas’s bed together, heads side by side, staring at the ceiling and talking about nothing at all. Sometimes Cas will burn incense and the room will grow heavy with the smell until Dean starts questioning what is real and what isn’t. The musky, warm smell has started sticking to Dean’s clothes and it’s a wonder Ezekiel hasn’t noticed it. Perhaps Castiel’s roommate has grown so used to it he can’t notice it any more than he could notice the smell of his own home.

Castiel’s main passion with Dean seems to be getting drunk under starlight and having the human in his arms. Here, they’ll either sit in silence together, or Cas will ask Dean some seriously pretentious, existential questions which Dean will answer as best he can; mind fogged by alcohol. It doesn’t seem to matter: Castiel always seems delighted by Dean’s answers. He will often beam at the human and remark at how clever he is, how insightful, how original and perceptive. In the next instant he will be kissing Dean, and as he pulls away, nine times out of ten he will say something about how beautiful or forgiving or brilliant Dean is—and it’s fucking embarrassing but equally wonderful: Dean is so unused to such praise coming from a partner’s lips, he’s never had a lover who cares so deeply for his emotional wellbeing, never had someone so convinced of his worth.

Which is why, although Dean is terrified about what he feels towards Cas; how soon it is that he’s prepared to say words to the angel that really only ought to be said _months, years_ into a relationship; he thinks that maybe—maybe—the angel feels the same way about him. Impossible though it may seem.

And the thought has his heart singing.

 

…

 

Dean and Castiel lie on the angel’s bed. They are tangling their fingers softly, Castiel beaming at Dean as he examines the constellations of freckles scattered across Dean’s cheeks and nose. The angel doesn’t bother supressing his smile. He doesn’t need to hide how happy looking at Dean makes him, now.

He ignores the scars on Dean’s chest, the long curved mark scratched across his forearm, the markings across his back. He knows better than to ask Dean about these; knew instantly without needing to be told that it wasn’t a subject he should broach, one he should avoid unless Dean decides to bring it up. He had hardly noticed them the first few times he and Dean had fucked, but then he started noticing so many, more and more—and reading between the lines, Castiel doesn’t know if he can stand to think about what Dean has been through. The scars aren’t really noticeable unless the lighting is bright, unless Castiel is looking for them. But once he starts counting them, he can’t stop.

He has started treating Dean as though the human were as paper thin and soft, delicate and beautiful as butterfly wings. He’ll press feather-light kisses onto the human’s forehead and cheeks and lips—he’s started becoming more and more affectionate with the human: each time he sees Dean Castiel will touch him a little more, and a little more tenderly, and find himself growing to care for the human a little more fiercely.

Of course, he feels the swelling urge to confess all his feelings towards Dean, in this moment—and of course, this includes that word, that word beginning with ‘L’ that Castiel can hardly bring himself to think about without a sickening nervousness fluttering through his system at the very idea—because what if Dean doesn’t feel the way Castiel does? What if Castiel is nothing more than a crush, a passing fancy, enjoyable company, to the green eyed boy? What if it is just a childish crush, and Dean will move onto far bigger and better things—which Castiel has no doubt the human is worthy of? What would Castiel do?

The thought isn’t worth perusing any further. Especially when it makes Castiel’s insides tremble with fear and a burning jealousy. He muses softly. Do they tremble with fear, or with something else entirely? Or with something caught between fear and something quite different?

“What’re you thinking about?” Dean asks, grazing his nose against Castiel’s. Castiel chuckles gently, despite himself, at the warm look caught on Dean’s features. He feels the human’s bare chest rising and falling steadily, pressed flush against his own. His time with Dean—like this—feels more intimate than anything he has ever known. It’s above and beyond the call of perfection.

He and Dean have only been on a few _actual_ dates. Most of their time together is spent at parties or in each other’s rooms, the library or outside. They’ve gone for a few meals out together and one movie, but Castiel doesn’t even feel the need to go out and _do_ things with Dean; he just wants to spend _time_ with the human. It’s odd, how quickly and seamlessly they have slipped into their rhythms together—but they just have. The two of them fit. They fit better than Castiel could have ever imagined. And yes, it’s horrendously cliché, Castiel knows, but he doesn’t care. He and Dean _work—_ in a way Castiel hasn’t ever experienced of _anyone_ before. And he loves how happy Dean looks when he’s around the angel. It makes something bright and warm curl in Castiel’s heart just to think about.

“You.” Castiel replies honestly, his lips twitching upwards. The tip of Dean’s nose tinges with a gentle pink and he rolls his eyes, laughing softly. “No, really.” Castiel chuckles. “I was thinking about how perfect things are, with you.”

“You think they’re perfect?” Dean asks quietly, a nervous beam spreading across his features.

“Yes,” Castiel chuckles. He grazes his nose against Dean’s again. “Very. Do you?”

“Of course I think things are perfect, Cas.” Dean rolls his eyes once more, as though this much ought to be obvious.

“That’s reassuring.” The angel chuckles, grazing his thumb softly across Dean’s cheek again.

Castiel still hasn’t broached the subject of his relationship with Dean—and its newly evolved state—to Ezekiel, just yet. Honestly, since the fight the two of them had—the fight which led to Castiel storming out onto the corridor and to Castiel kissing Dean again—he and Ezekiel haven’t been speaking all that much, at all. Ezekiel hasn’t really _allowed_ Castiel to speak to him in much more than single-word sentences. Castiel will enter the room, and more often than not, Ezekiel will leave it, huffing loudly. They hardly speak before they go to sleep anymore, not even a gentle goading or annoying of one another; Ezekiel doesn’t invite Castiel to parties anymore and doesn’t attend any of the ones Castiel invites him too—at least not in Castiel’s company. As happy as Castiel is with Dean, something hollow is forming inside his chest at the absence of his friend, he feels less than himself and he _knows_ he ought to tell Ezekiel the truth for _so many reasons,_ but the thought is scary and he doesn’t know if he can face up to it.

The moment Castiel tells his roommate the truth—and all of it—he will be acknowledging that his and Dean’s relationship is _serious—_ it will become as a fixed point, immovable. Castiel’s feelings already seem too rooted and immovable toward the human as it is. Admitting them _out loud?_

He sighs gently and resolves to kiss Dean’s lips with a gentle tenderness.

Ezekiel hasn’t had Dean back around their dorm to play video games with him—perhaps convinced that Dean still feels too uncomfortable around Castiel after everything. Little he knows, Castiel snorts lightly to himself. Dean and Castiel are now _very_ comfortable around each other. As though reading the angel’s thoughts, Dean’s hand grazes pointedly up Castiel’s side. The angel chuckles softly.

It’s been over a week. Nearly two weeks—in fact, two weeks, tomorrow. Castiel really _should_ tell his roommate. But not now. Not yet.

Honestly, though, if Castiel had to wait until he felt ready, he has a feeling he’d be waiting forever.

The angel and Dean have been lying like this for Castiel-doesn’t-quite-know-how-many-hours. Usually, activities of this kind are kept in Dean’s room—but as it is, Ezekiel is at the movies with friends, and Castiel and Dean have been able to spend the most wonderful time together, in only each other’s glorious company, in the comfort of Castiel’s own room.

He feels the swell of his confession of further affection for Dean press at his lips again. He resists the urge to pour his heart out to the younger boy. These are early days. They’re early days, and Castiel cannot bring himself to think what he would do if Dean did not return these affections.

“Are you free tomorrow?” Dean asks, his fingers stroking tenderly through the angel’s hair. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards, he resists the urge to let his eyes flutter closed.

“Yes,” He nods. “I am. Well,” He corrects himself. “In the afternoon. What time did you have in mind?”

“Afternoon’s fine.” Dean shrugs. “What do you wanna do?”

Castiel hums thoughtfully and pushes the hairs lightly off of Dean’s face.

“Anything with you.” He beams.

“That’s cute, Cas, but not very helpful.”

Castiel chuckles and grazes his nose across Dean’s.

“I don’t know, we could—”

The door swings suddenly open, interrupting the angel mid-sentence,

“Cassie, listen—” Ezekiel starts, before stopping dead in his tracks and staring, wide-eyed, at Castiel and Dean. Dean has frozen, his body has gone taught and stiff, and Castiel is fairly certain his has done the same from discomfort. “—Oh, for _fucks_ sake!” Ezekiel rolls his eyes, looking utterly disgusted, and turns on his heel, slamming the door behind him.

“Shit,” Castiel mutters, scrambling out of the bed. Dean looks up at him with wide worried eyes, veiled with an emotion Castiel doesn’t quite recognise. “Wait here.” He mutters to Dean, tripping as he attempts to pull on a pair of boxers. He doesn’t bother sporting any more clothing before dashing out onto the corridor and after Ezekiel.

“Ezekiel, wait—” He starts, catching up with the other angel and holding out his hand to Ezekiel’s arm. The angel turns around, his face a bright red, and glares at Castiel.

“How long?” He asks, glowering at his roommate. Castiel swallows uncomfortably. “How long have you and _Dean_ been—” He cuts himself off, glaring at the ground instead of at Castiel’s face.

“Nearly two weeks.” Castiel confesses. There’s no use in lying, and honestly, he _had_ been planning on telling Ezekiel sooner or later.

“Two weeks?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows at Castiel. The angel cannot tell what the sentiment behind this action is.

“Nearly.” Castiel nods. “Two weeks, tomorrow.”

“So when you and I had that fight—” He squints at his roommate in an odd mixture of confusion and disgust.

“Before I stormed out?” Castiel asks. “I uh—I stamped out onto the corridor, and Dean was there—and I saw him—and I… sort of kissed him.”

“Sort of?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows, glaring at his roommate.

“ _Did_ kiss, I _did_ kiss Dean.” Castiel corrects himself.

“And that was the first time the two of you—did that?” Ezekiel inquires. His nose wrinkles in disgust.

“No,” Castiel admits, rubbing his forearm lightly as a breeze floats down the corridor and causes pinpricks to rise on his skin, his hairs standing on end. He shifts his weight uncomfortably from his right foot to his left, his wings bristling awkwardly in the chill of the—fortunately deserted—corridor. “It wasn’t.”

“When else?” Ezekiel frowns.

“The night before—that was when Dean had come round, looking for you. But—”

“But he stayed anyway, and you _kissed_ him.” Ezekiel sighs, rolling his eyes frustratedly. Something defensive curls in Castiel’s heart.

“No,” He frowns again. “We kissed _each other_.”

“Oh, fucking really?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows at Castiel.

“Why is that so unbelievable?” Castiel glares.

“Cassie, have you even _seen_ the way Dean used to act around you?” Ezekiel asks, before sighing pointedly again. “You know what, you probably did—apparently you’ve seen _way_ more of that kid than I’d have ever anticipated—” Castiel feels his jaw clench at Ezekiel’s words. “—Anyway, that’s not the point—do you honestly expect me to believe that _Dean_ made the first move?!”

“Well, I never said that—” Castiel glowers, before cutting himself off. “What I’m saying is,” He presses his fingertips to his forehead and rubs softly, feeling the onset of a headache coming on.

“You took _advantage_ of the way a _kid_ felt about you.” Ezekiel glowers at Castiel. He’s never been this angry at Castiel before.

“Dean isn’t a _child,_ Ezekiel, and I didn’t take advantage—”

“He’s two years younger than you! And really fucking emotionally vulnerable! And he liked you for _so long—”_

“I’m not the kind of person who’d take advantage of someone like that!” Castiel exclaims. “You should know, of all people!—And anyway, Gadreel was _three_ years older than Dean, and you practically _set them up—_ so you clearly didn’t see any problem _there—”_

“That’s because Gadreel wasn’t ever a _prick_ to my friend!” Ezekiel bites back. “And I can only imagine how it went down with you and Dean when you first kissed! Let me guess—he was drunk, you were sober—”

“We’d _both_ been drinking—”

“I never denied that.”

“Stop making it out like that—” Castiel thinks he’s going to cry; Ezekiel is making him doubt everything he had thought about the way in which he and Dean had got together, whether or not Dean even _wanted_ to get together—

“I’m not making it out like anything! Dean was alone with you, and you came onto him—”

“—He reciprocated!” Castiel exclaims. “To me flirting _and_ me kissing him!”

“I can’t even _imagine_ you flirting with Dean after watching you be a dick to him for so many months—”

“Well it’s not _my_ fault you have such an unimaginative mind, is it?!” Castiel glares at the ceiling, infuriated. “And I _asked_ him if I could kiss him, first, anyway!”

Ezekiel’s entire demeanour shifts into that of surprise.

Surprise, and, oh fuck—amusement.

“You _asked_ to kiss him?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows at the angel, then snorts, despite himself.

“Yes,” Castiel frowns. “We were _drunk_ —and anyway, wouldn’t you rather that I got his confirmation as opposed to just leaning in and potentially doing something to him he wasn’t up for?”

“There’s a little something called reading signals, Casti—”

“Fucking hell.” Castiel sighs pointedly, interrupting the other angel and his mocking smirk. “You were just _yelling_ at me because you thought I’d taken advantage of him!”

“I’m just so confused about why you _wanted_ to kiss him—”

“What the hell do you mean by that?! Why does anyone want to kiss anyone?!” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, alright, but—”

“And listen, that night—it was the first time I’d ever kissed Dean.”

“And that’s why he was so uncomfortable the next day?”

“I think he was afraid I regretted it.” Castiel admits, looking down. “He sort of left, shortly after we…” He trails of and sighs.

“You _think_ he was afraid you regretted it?”

“He told me.” Castiel sighs.

“So, all this time—all your hating Dean—”

“I never hated Dean—” Castiel frowns.

“—You could’ve fooled me.” The other angel snorts. Castiel looks away, mortified. “Anyway, so you being so cold to Dean—you pulling all those ‘holier than thou’ faces while he and I played video games—all of that was due to extreme sexual tension? Or rather, your own utterly repressed sexual feelings towards him?”

“They weren’t just _sexual_ feelings…” Castiel mutters uncomfortably. Ezekiel actually barks out a laugh at this.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me, Cassie?” The angels eyes begin to cloud over with tears of mirth. “You _like_ -like him?!”

“Why is that so unbelievable?” Castiel glares at his roommate. “And why do you find it so amusing?”

“Because it’s _you_ , Castiel. You’re the last person, _ever_ —you know what? Why do I even have to explain this to you? You know yourself better than anyone—why do you _think_ I’m so surprised?”

“Because you’re an ass.” Castiel’s jaw clenches.

“Oh, fuck off.” Ezekiel merely laughs in response, brushing Castiel’s insult aside. “Wait—” He looks back at Castiel’s face, suddenly. “If you went and kissed Dean again outside our room after our fight—does that mean it was me who gave you the proverbial push into doing it? And if so—is it thanks to me that the two of you are an item, now?”

Castiel glares at the ground instead of at Ezekiel.

“It is!” He exclaims excitedly. “This is fucking awesome, Cassie, I’m like a freakin’ matchmaker, or whatever—”

“An _unintentional_ matchmaker.” Castiel corrects. The other angel merely snorts.

“Whatever.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “You know, I totally knew he’d be your type, from the moment I met him. I was like: _this guy would be so great for Castiel but-oh-no-wait-he’s-a-human-so-maybe-not.”_

“Fascinating.” Castiel deadpans.

“And then I _totally_ introduced Dean to Gadreel because I thought that _maybe_ you liked Dean back—and that me doing that and the two of them hooking up would like, maybe push you into admitting you had feelings for him out of jealousy or something, but—”

“Wait, what?!”

“—But you just didn’t seem to give a fuck! I mean, you were grumpy, for sure, but then you kind of _always_ are—and I thought maybe you _didn’t_ really like Dean? At all? But I was wrong about thinking I was wrong!”

“You _set up_ Gadreel and Dean so that I’d feel like shit?!”

“Not like shit, Cassie, so that you’d feel jealous!” Ezekiel exclaims. “—And you liked Dean so much you felt like _shit_ about him getting with someone else?! Seriously?”

“You’re so manipulative!”

“No, I wanted Dean to be happy.” Ezekiel defends himself. “And I thought it would have one of two outcomes—a: you’d admit you had feelings for Dean and tell him that, or b: Dean would be happy with Gadreel.”

“But neither of those things happened.” Castiel glares.

“I guess I shouldn’t have tried playing matchmaker.” Ezekiel shrugs. “Sorry about that.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“It’s fine.” He sighs.

“You’re only forgiving me because it all worked out pretty well for you, in the end, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.” Castiel sighs. “But—you’re okay with it, then? With me and Dean?” He asks uncertainly, raising his eyebrows slightly at the other angel. His wings bristle uncomfortably again, but Ezekiel is careless and still somewhat amused.

“Well, it wouldn’t really be my place to be _not_ okay with it, would it?” He asks. Something inside of Castiel settles with relief. “Well, unless something truly shitty was going on. But by the looks of it, the two of you are getting along disgustingly well.”

Castiel’s ears prickle with pink.

“Just—” Ezekiel sighs a moment. “Just put a sign on the door when he and you are—” He makes a vague, uncomfortable gesture. “One time—one time is more than enough, Cassie.”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“Of course.” He nods.

“Dean’s gonna be spending a lot more time around our dorm, isn’t he?” Ezekiel asks, smirking softly.

“I certainly hope so.” Castiel admits, his cheeks going a little pink.

“At least this explains why you’ve been spending so many nights in some ‘mystery person’s’ room.” Ezekiel chuckles lightly. “I’m gonna hazard a guess and say you were staying over at Dean’s?”

“That would be correct.” Castiel confirms, his face prickling with embarrassment.

“And _Benny_ didn’t tell me?” Ezekiel asks, disbelievingly. “ _Benny?_ I thought he would, of all people!”

“I asked him not to.” Castiel shakes his head.

“Why?”

“I knew you’d react like _this._ Can we move on, now, please?”

“Sure,” Ezekiel laughs. “Just be sure to make me best man at your wedding.” He snorts.

“Ezekiel—”

“What?” The angel chortles. “It was thanks to me the two of you got together, in the first place!”

“’Zeke, please—”

“Cassie, I’m only joking.” Ezekiel laughs, clapping his hand onto the other angel’s bare shoulder. “On the other hand, though, I’m really kind of not. So I’ll definitely be expecting an invitation through my letterbox in a few years’ time. No need to rush things, after all.” He snorts. “Half the fun is in the journey, as they say.”

“I’ve never heard anyone say that.” Castiel frowns.

“Whatever, man.” Ezekiel chuckles again, removing his hand from the other angel’s shoulder. “One more thing, though, Castiel,” He says, pulling a far more serious, sombre expression.

“What is it?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows slightly nervously at Ezekiel.

“Put some fucking clothes on.” Ezekiel snorts. Castiel rolls his eyes and supresses the smile tugging his lips upwards and attempting to pull laughter from his mouth.

“Is that your way of giving the relationship your blessing?” He smirks.

“Call it whatever the hell you want.” Ezekiel shrugs, careless. “Just don’t get too sappy in my presence. It’s like watching your brother make out with someone.” He wrinkles his nose. “Not nice.”

“Duly noted.” Castiel chuckles. He turns on his heel and sprints back down the corridor, swinging open the door to his room. Dean is sitting worriedly on the bed, the sheets pulled around his lap, effectively covering up his nakedness.

“Do you want to end it?” Dean asks the moment Castiel enters, his face anxious and balanced on the knife’s edge before distress as he glances up at the angel. “Do you want to end things with me?”

“No,” Castiel frowns, shaking his head. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don’t know.” Dean admits, looking down. “I just—I thought you might’ve wanted to keep it secret. That that was where the real thrill of things came in.”

“No.” Castiel shakes his head again. “That’s not the case, at all.”

“It’s not?” Dean asks, looking up at the angel with hopeful features. Castiel’s lips twitch gently upwards.

“Of course.” He replies earnestly. “Of course that’s not the case. I—” He cuts himself off. He had been seconds away from confessing his true feelings toward Dean. And he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t possibly. Ever. “—I would never do that.” Castiel repeats again, swallowing hard. Dean’s lips twitch upwards. His face breaks with relief.

“Thank fuck,” He breathes out a shallow laugh, throat cracked. “—I was—I was afraid—”

“I know.” Castiel nods, sitting beside Dean and winding his arm round the human’s shoulder. Dean sighs and leans into the angel’s body. “But you shouldn’t have been. Not at all.”

“It was kind of a cute moment before Ezekiel interrupted it.” Dean laughs softly.

“Yes,” Castiel nods, chuckling lightly. “It certainly was.”

“Fucking Ezekiel.” Dean laughs.

“Fucking Ezekiel.” Castiel agrees absently.

“Was he at all pissed off about everything?” Dean asked, lifting his head slightly to look up at the angel, his voice somewhat concerned.

“Not massively,” Castiel shakes his head. “More concerned that I’d take advantage of you, in some way, I think.”

“But you’d never do that.” Dean mumbles happily. Castiel squeezes Dean’s side.

“Never.” He confirms. “And of course, once he’d found out that that wasn’t the case, he was mainly concerned about making sure I knew to put a sign on the door, in the future.”

“So he knows when not to come in?”

“So he knows when not to come in.” Castiel nods softly. “He was primarily merely pissed off about walking in on the two of us without any clothes on, I believe.”

“Speaking of,” Dean chuckles, slipping his thumb underneath the elastic of Castiel’s waistband. “Maybe that’s a state we should go back to.”

“You’re terrible,” Castiel shakes his head, laughing lightly as his eyes crinkle at their corners.

“Is that a no?” Dean asks. “’Cause if it is, then I’m gonna get dressed, too—in the view of equality, and all—”

“Shut up.” Castiel laughs, pulling off his boxers and sitting back onto the bed, tugging Dean onto his lap. His thumbs graze absently at the ridges of Dean’s hipbones as he leans back onto the bed before rolling Dean over. He adores the way Dean hums against his mouth appreciatively, the way his hands move to fist at the angel’s hair, the way his jaw grows slack as the two of them continue kissing, allowing Castiel full access to his mouth. Castiel adores Dean. Every element of him.

 


	15. Never Quite Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Drug use, nightmares, etc.

 

“So,” Ezekiel smirks at Castiel from across the room. “Dean is coming tonight.”

“I’m aware of that, funnily enough.” Castiel rolls his eyes, not rising to the other angel’s bait. Ezekiel sits on his bed, cross-legged, grinning widely and expectantly at his roommate.

“Of _course_ you are.” He laughs in a soft, knowing tone. Castiel’s insides sigh with frustration.

“What’s your point, Ezekiel?”

“Are you gonna spend time with me and my crowd, then?” Ezekiel asks, sliding up off his bed and picking some of his clothes off the floor.

“If by ‘your crowd’, you mean Dean, then yes, I expect I will.” Castiel replies. He folds the bottom corner of the page he is reading, marking it and underlining a sentence he thinks to be of particular significance.

“I also mean Benny, me, Gabriel—”

“—And you’ve lost my interest.” Castiel laughs, lying back on his bed, still reading.

“I’ve lost your interest because I’m not talking about Dean?” Ezekiel teases. Castiel decides to humour him.

“You said it, not me.”

“You know, you’d probably have to hang out with Gabriel anyway, what with him being friends with Ash—”

“Gabriel isn’t the issue, here.”

“Benny? But Benny thinks you’re nice, you know—”

“And I think Benny’s nice.” Castiel replies, shrugging.

“Are you trying to tell me that _I’m_ the issue here?”

“Ezekiel, how could you even think of such a thing?” Castiel mock-gasps, looking up from his book, “I’ve known you for _years—_ you’re like a _brother—”_

“You know, Cassie,” Ezekiel tosses a pair of jeans at Castiel’s head, “you’ve gotten quite funny since you started dating Dean.”

“It’s been what—three weeks?”

“Including the weeks since I gave it my blessing?”

Castiel throws the jeans back at Ezekiel.

“It’s not as though the relationship only became legitimate when you found out—”

“I beg to differ.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “I’m like a priest.”

“How exactly are you like a priest?”

“Like, weddings are only legitimate if they—”

“That’s not at all how it works in either of these cases, Ezekiel—”

“You’re always trying to beat me down.” The angel sighs, sticking up notes for revision on his wall. “I show you nothing but _love,_ and you—”

“I swear to everything that is pure and holy, Ezekiel, if you don’t shut the fuck up _right now—”_

“Woah, someone’s feeling tetchy,” Ezekiel raises his hands in mock defeat. “I was only trying to _entertain.”_ He sits back down on his bed. Castiel rolls his eyes. There is silence for a moment.

“And like you’d fucking know _anything_ about what’s ‘pure and holy’, Castiel.” Ezekiel points out. “You know, you’ve probably totally corrupted Dean by now—”

“Like you hadn’t already?”

“I hadn’t!” Ezekiel exclaims. “He was pure and innocent before—”

“What do you mean by _corrupted?”_ Castiel frowns, looking up.

“I mean,” Ezekiel sighs, “that when I walked in on you two, _naked—”_

“We were under my covers, Ezekiel, how many fucking times—”

“My eyes nearly burned out of their sockets with the _impurity_ of it all—”

“You’re talking like you’re some kind of fucking saint, which we all know isn’t at all true—”

“—Seeing my _little Dean_ being _kissed_ by some creepy—”

“—And Dean wasn’t a _virgin_ when I met him—you _know_ that!—”

“—And knowing that just _minutes_ previously, the two of you had been getting up to—well, I don’t even want to _think_ about it—”

“—And it’s not as though virginity, and purity by extension, as a concept are even _real—_ it’s just some ridiculous idea people invented to _shame—”_

 _“—In my bedroom!”_ Ezekiel exclaims, clearly loving every moment of the fight. “ _Where I sleep at night!”_

Dean opens the door, which blocks Castiel’s pillow’s path on its way to Ezekiel’s head.

“Oh, for _fucks_ sake.” Castiel groans, rocking back where he has sat up and grumbling at the ceiling instead of to anyone in particular.

“Sorry,” Dean frowns. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing in particular.” Castiel mutters begrudgingly, his teeth gritted as he shoots a filthy glare in Ezekiel’s direction.

“Right…” Dean frowns, sounding very unconvinced.

“Dean, it’s nice how you don’t even knock, now.” Ezekiel beams up at the human as he closes the door. “I’d like to think that’s because of how comfortable you feel around me. That kind of comfort and stability—it’s only something you get out of _friendship,_ isn’t it? Really special _friendships_ like ours.”

“I know what you’re trying to do, Ezekiel,” Castiel growls, “and it’s not going to work.”

“Judging by your tone, it already is.” Ezekiel grins, sticking his tongue out at Castiel when the angel offers him his middle finger.

“Do I want to know what the two of you were fighting about?” Dean asks as Ezekiel rolls onto his front, lying down on his bed.

“You,” Ezekiel smiles innocently, resting his chin on his hands and looking up at Dean, grinning widely. “And how Castiel has sullied the noble Winchester name.”

“Ezekiel—” Castiel growls again, but Dean only laughs and takes a seat next to Castiel.

“Hasn’t he?” Dean rolls his eyes teasingly. “I was just thinking that—how on _earth_ will I marry well, now?! And father had promised me to the young Earl at castle gate!”

Ezekiel bursts out into giggles, and Castiel _only just_ manages to supress his smile.

“The family name in tatters!”

“Mother cried for _hours_ last night, Ezekiel! She stood astride the fireplace in the dining room and informed that I was a _wench_ of most catastrophic proportions!”

“How the blazes did your father take the news?!” Ezekiel gasps, sitting up dramatically. He puts on a terrible, awfully forced British accent.

“Father threatened to disown me,” Dean looks out the window with a melancholic, wistful expression. “He told me I’d made a fool of myself: that my vow of chastity would have saved our family from financial _ruin—”_

“Now you’ll have to sell off the family jewels!” Ezekiel exclaims. “Or the silver!”

“Mother stated we may even have to go so far as to sell Abbercroft House!” Dean gasps, putting a hand to his head and pulling a rather pathetic expression.

“Not Abbercroft!”

“Yes Abbercroft!”

“The one in Scotland?”

“The very same!”

“Oh, how the House of Winchester has been ruined!” Ezekiel cries. “By this, the most perverted of all calamities! The most shameful of all catastrophes!”

“I shall have to become a lowly governess!” Dean pretends to break down. “Or else risk having to _sell_ myself—”

“And the kidney market is so unstable at the moment!” Ezekiel exclaims. This has Dean bursting out into fits of laughter, and Castiel finally cracking a smile, laughing softly. “We broke Cassie!” Ezekiel exclaims, high fiving a still cackling Dean.

 _“Fuck me,”_ The human gasps. “You take things too seriously, Cas.”

“And you two need to stop watching British period dramas.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I actually got all that from reading Jane Austen.” Ezekiel nods sagely.

“You’ve never read Jane Austen.” Castiel states.

“How would you know?”

“So, Cas, are you coming tonight?” Dean asks, changing the subject. Castiel’s gaze flickers over to him and he sighs in defeat.

“Yes.” He confirms.

“He’s only going because you are,” Ezekiel interrupts. “He told me just now.”

“That’s cute.” Dean grins, glancing over to Castiel’s roommate.

“He’s _sickeningly_ cute about you, Dean—”

“I know,” Dean sighs, reaching out to ruffle Castiel’s hair. The angel frowns indignantly at him. “I’ve been meaning to tell him to tone it down.”

“It’s bad enough that he’s dating a _freshman—”_

“You always bring that up whenever you want to complain about me being with him.” Castiel frowns.

“I say it because I think it’s _creepy—”_

“You introduced me to Gadreel, who’s _older_ than Cas—”

“Yes, but Gadreel isn’t my roommate, and I didn’t have to sit through the two of you—” Ezekiel wrinkles his nose and shudders for dramatic effect. _“—Canoodling.”_ He finishes with a grimace.

“Canoodling?” Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows somewhat indignantly at Ezekiel. “That’s the way you’d choose to describe—?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake—whatever.” Ezekiel sighs childishly. “Whatever you want to call it. The point is, it’s _gross—”_

“We’re in a relationship, Ezekiel.” Castiel frowns. Ezekiel grimaces again and mock-vomits at the word, but Castiel rolls his eyes and ignores him as Dean’s gaze flicks suddenly to the angel’s face, wide-eyed with wonder at something Castiel doesn’t seem to be aware of. “And we’re not exactly doing anything that you’ve never done yourself—are we?”

“—It’s _gross,”_ Ezekiel continues, sticking his tongue out at Castiel when the angel sighs pointedly, “and I don’t want to have to sit through endless hours of PDA whenever we go out together.”

“PDA?” Castiel frowns questioningly.

“Public displays of affection, Cassie, fucking hell—”

“No, I know what it stands for,” Castiel glares at his roommate, “I just don’t think that’s a fair comment.”

“What the fuck makes you think it’s _unfair?”_

“Dean and I are very discreet!” Castiel exclaims.

“As if,” Ezekiel snorts. “Need I remind you how I found out the two of you were dating?”

“Ezekiel, that’s—”

“I walked in on you post-fuck! You were all afterglowy and everything! Kissing each other’s noses and—”

“Stop exaggerating.”

“I’m not!”

“We were _not_ kissing each other’s noses when you walked in on us!”

“Yeah, maybe,” Ezekiel concedes with a frustrated groan, “but I bet you _had_ been—”

“’Zeke,” Dean groans, glaring up at the ceiling. “Let’s change the subject.”

“Because you know I’m right?”

“Are you just gonna be drinking tonight?” Dean asks, avoiding Ezekiel’s question neatly. “Or anything else?”

“Maybe just smoking,” Ezekiel shrugs, accepting the bate more than falling for it. “I haven’t really thought about it, though. Just gonna see where the night takes me, you know?”

“Fair enough,” Dean shrugs.

“What about you?”

“I’m not sure,” Dean shakes his head. “Cas wants to go for some _really_ hard stuff—”

“What, drugs?”

“Yeah—but I—”

“Castiel, don’t _pressure_ Dean—” Ezekiel groans.

“I haven’t!” Castiel exclaims. “When did I ever do that?! I’ve only said—”

“You’re such a bad influence on him—”

“That’s not fair at all—”

“This is what I _meant_ when I said you’ve been corrupting him.” Ezekiel pretends to fall into despair, and Castiel feels remarkably as though he is about to do the same.

“Ezekiel, I’m going to have to leave soon, purely out of frustration with you—”

“What drugs are you gonna take?” Ezekiel asks, gaze snapping back to Castiel. “Nothing _too_ hard, right?” His tone turns suddenly serious.

“Nothing too hard.” Castiel repeats in some kind of half-hearted promise. “Probably ecstasy, maybe acid—”

“LSD?” Ezekiel’s tone turns solemner still. “Are you sure, Cassie? After—”

“I know what I’m doing.” Castiel brushes off Ezekiel’s comment with a glare—there are certain things Castiel isn’t comfortable even _Dean_ knowing about him; and if those things are shared now—

“Castiel—”

“Ezekiel.” Castiel glares back. Ezekiel’s expression hardens and Castiel, a sharp bitterness curling then snapping inside him, looks away suddenly rolling his eyes coarsely and huffing out an indignant sigh. “Whatever.” He replies suddenly. “You’re going to ruin it with bad vibes if you carry on like this, Ezekiel, so why don’t you just shut the fuck—”

“I’m only thinking—”

“Then _stop_ thinking.” Castiel bites. He glances at Dean. “Come on,” He holds out his hand for the human to take. “I’m ready to leave, now.”

Dean looks utterly confused, and is still staring at Castiel with wide eyes; though his gaze flickers between both the angels, perplexed, at regular intervals; before taking Castiel’s hand soundlessly and standing up after the angel.

“Bye, Ezekiel,” Dean waves awkwardly as Castiel makes his way to exit.

“Cassie—” Ezekiel tries, but Castiel closes the door thickly behind him. Silence settles between himself and Dean for a moment.

“What was Ezekiel talking about?” Dean asks, glancing over to Castiel as he steps outside.

“Nothing.” Castiel shakes his head. “Nothing that he knows anything about, and it doesn’t matter, anyway.”

Dean frowns at the angel, unconvinced.

“Really.” Castiel grits his teeth. “That’s the truth.”

“Right…” Dean looks away, clearly not satisfied.

“It is.” Castiel repeats himself, stubbornly.

“You know, you don’t have to tell me, if it makes you uncomfortable,” Dean sighs as though Castiel is being very slow indeed, “but I wish you wouldn’t _lie_ to me.”

Castiel looks down guiltily.

“That’s fair.” He admits.

“You don’t expect me to tell everything to you.”

“No,” Castiel replies, looking away—though he wishes Dean _would_ tell him everything; wishes Dean considered Castiel soft enough and kind enough and dependable enough to be  trusted with all the human’s feelings… But how can he expect—or rather, desire—this much of Dean when Castiel can’t even do a fraction of this himself when it comes to the human? He glances back at Dean, who looks at the path ahead of them instead of at Castiel.

“You know,” Dean starts thoughtfully, “back there, when we were talking to Ezekiel, you said that you and I were— _are—_ in a relationship.” His gaze flits back over to Ezekiel. “Did you mean that?”

Castiel falters a moment.

Has he really never said this to Dean before?

“I—” He stammers uncertainly a moment. “Well, yes…” He can hardly look at Dean. “That’s what I’d consider us—I mean, would you? And it’s weird, I hate the word, but you sort of _are_ my—”

“Your…?” Dean encourages, raising his eyebrows questioningly at Castiel. It’s as though he can already sense how Castiel was going to finish his sentence, and the thought—or, rather, knowledge—fills him with a pure, unadulterated joy that he attempts rather superfluously to mask with innocent ignorance.

“…Boyfriend.” Castiel admits. And then, for good measure, he adds a disapproving, offended, “Ugh.”

But Dean has already bumped shoulders rather hard with Castiel, grinning widely, and looks away.

“Ugh.” He repeats, practically beaming. “That’s just, fucking…”

“Gross.” Castiel finishes for the human.

“Absolutely.” Dean nods with feigned passion. He continues beaming. “I mean, the thought that we’re—”

_“—Exclusive?”_

“Fucking appalling.” Dean shakes his head.

“It’s just not right.” Castiel sighs. “And the idea that we’re—”

“ _Going steady?”_ Dean wrinkles his nose, still shaking his head.

“It’s vile.” Castiel looks into the distance. “Just so wrong.”

In the next moment—and Castiel isn’t quite sure how this has happened—but he and Dean are kissing passionately in the darkening air, around them only the silence of complete isolation. The only sounds are Dean’s soft breaths and Castiel’s elated thoughts whizzing around his own skull. He worries what the human means to him; and yet while he cares more and more for Dean every day, he seems to worry about this less and less, too.

 

…

 

“I didn’t see you much, last night.” Ezekiel starts casually, glancing over at Dean as they change after practice.

“No?” Dean asks. “Sorry about that—I think Castiel was just…”

“Grumpy with me?” Ezekiel asks, his tone lightly humorous.

“Yeah.” Dean admits honestly, huffing out a laugh.

“Thought so,” Ezekiel grins wistfully. “—You know, out of the three of us, I’d say _you’re_ probably the most mature one. Can you believe that?!”

“Hardly.” Dean admits.

“And yet there it is.” Ezekiel chuckles, shrugging matter-of-factly. Dean laughs and elbows his friend. “How did you enjoy yourself, by the way?”

“I had fun, yeah.” Dean smiles. “Stayed with Cas, pretty much the whole time, which was nice.”

“I thought you would.” Ezekiel smiles warmly. Dean rolls his eyes at his friend’s teasing. “What did he do?” He asks. “Did he end up taking the acid?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods uneasily, unsure if he should be telling Ezekiel this, judging by the angel’s earlier reaction to the discovery that Castiel was planning on taking any hard drugs.

“How was that?” Ezekiel asks—surprisingly not frustrated, Dean notes, but suddenly concerned.

“Fine,” Dean frowns softly.

“Fine?” Ezekiel repeats, sounding almost disbelieving.

“Yeah, fine.” Dean nods. “He was a little weird when he was coming up, but—”

“Weird?”

“Worried, I don’t know. He told me to hold onto his hand and make sure I didn’t let go. Kept asking me questions with really obvious answers, as though he was just trying to reassure himself with them.”

“Right.” Ezekiel nods as though this is little to be concerned about.

“Why?” Dean asks, frowning.

Ezekiel bites his lip uneasily a moment before answering.

“Listen, Dean,” He starts, glancing around them, as most of the guys surrounding them begin to make their way to leave. “Castiel probably doesn’t want me telling you this—judging by the fact that he didn’t tell you last night, and by the fact that it’s _Castiel_ we’re talking about—” Still now, the angel seems to be attempting humour. Dean isn’t sure if he appreciates it or not. “—And so maybe I really _shouldn’t_ be telling you, but…” He sobers a moment. “A couple of times, Cassie has had some really _bad_ times on psychedelics. LSD in particular.”

“But he seemed so confident with it.” Dean frowns. “And so—I don’t know—”

“Yeah, he always does.” Ezekiel nods. “Right up until the moment he doesn’t. And then… Well, all hell breaks loose.”

“What happens?” Dean frowns.

Ezekiel sighs and looks away.

“You know how your parents died? And it was—I’m sorry to bring this up, by the way, I really am… But I guess it’s the best way to get a picture…”

“That’s fine…” Dean says slowly, still frowning at his friend.

“Have you ever done acid before?” Ezekiel asks, looking up at Dean sharply.

“Only once,” Dean admits, “And it was only half a tab—”

“Well, then, you know how Cassie goes really, really hard with like, _everything?”_

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “I’d noticed. What are you talking about?”

Ezekiel sighs as though it is frustratingly difficult to articulate himself.

“Well…” He groans and rubs his face. “You know how Castiel’s parents died, too?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, frowning.

“And that happened when he was thirteen, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know he was there when it happened? A bit like you were?”

Dean shakes his head. His face turns suddenly heavy.

“Well, he was.” Ezekiel nods. “And—I don’t know—acid… It’s one of those things, isn’t it? When it’s good, it’s going great; but when it’s bad, it’s like… a nightmare. I mean, when it’s _really_ bad, it’s like the worst nightmare imaginable. And Castiel…”

“Sometimes sees his parents?”

“Something like that.” Ezekiel sighs. “I think it’s from just _thinking_ about them, to begin with—but you know how acid can take one little thought and turn it into a _mountain…_ Yeah. He starts talking about how he sees blood everywhere, how it’s all over him—he tries to clean it off, but it doesn’t—one time he burnt his hands on scalding water trying to—” Ezekiel cuts himself off. “I’m not one to police people, Dean, you know me.” He reasons. “But genuinely, Castiel shouldn’t be doing LSD. It’s not good for him. I know that he likes it, and I know that when it’s good, he feels amazing—but when it’s bad, it’s—”

“Awful.”

“Yeah.” Ezekiel nods. He sighs and picks up his kit.

“Is he okay?”

“Okay? You mean—what, is he gonna flip out over it or something? Totally lose control one day? Even when sober?”

“No, I mean emotionally—”

“—Emotionally, are _any_ of us okay?”

“’Zeke—”

“He’s fine.” Ezekiel shrugs. “I mean, apart from when he’s totally fucked, he’s fine. That’s the point. He’ll get sad about it, sure, but he’s fine. And he doesn’t get what a bad effect that kind of drug has on him, so when I tell him not to do it, he gets pissed off. Or he _does_ get what kind of effect it has on him, but because he knows I’m right and he fucking _hates_ being criticised, he gets pissed off. Whichever reason it is. Maybe even a bit of both, however that works.”

“And what am I supposed to do with this information?”

“I don’t know,” Ezekiel sighs. “I didn’t mean to offload it onto you, and I didn’t mean to undermine Cassie—just… Be mindful of it, okay? It’s good to _know,_ because it’s kind of just me looking out for him in that sense, and—”

“It’s difficult?”

“Yeah.” The angel admits. “Really not easy.”

“And a big responsibility.”

“Yeah.” Ezekiel admits again. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Dean shrugs. “Now I know—it’s good that I do. Cas was fine last night. I’ll make sure he’s fine every night.”

Ezekiel smiles warmly.

“What did he do?”

“He kept asking me to draw things.” He laughs. Ezekiel’s smile turns warm and amused. “Planets, nature, patterns—that kind of thing. Dogs, at one point. He loved it. And he listened to loads of music and told me what colours he could see during each song.”

“Nice,” Ezekiel laughs.

“Then we left, because he thought it was too loud—I was okay with that, it was pretty noisy and wasn’t much fun, so we went back to my room and talked for _ages._ Like maybe three hours before he even started yawning.”

“What did you talk about?” Ezekiel asks as they exit the locker area together.

“I don’t know,” Dean admits, snorting lightly. “Everything, really. Space, a lot—he kept on bringing up aliens—”

Ezekiel seems to find this hilarious.

“Aliens? Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean confirms. “—Well, were talking about space, to begin with, and then it naturally followed that we should—”

“He always says something along the lines of ‘ _Life on other planets exists, aliens don’t.’”_ Ezekiel mimics Castiel’s matter-of-fact-tone. “Did he say that?”

“Yeah,” Dean nods, chuckling. “And then he changed his mind—sort of—and said that he really hoped that aliens existed in the ET, Star Wars kind of way. But he told me not to tell anyone that, so please don’t bring it up.”

“I won’t,” Ezekiel grins and shakes his head. “Shit… What a weird guy.”

“We’re all a little weird.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re in love with him.” Ezekiel casts a bemused glance over to Dean, who rolls his eyes, chuckling.

“Not in love.”

“ _Falling,_ sorry.” Ezekiel corrects himself, winking.

“Cas and I—”

“—Are truly, madly, deeply—”

“We are _not—”_

“You could’ve fooled me.” Ezekiel snorts. “Honestly, Dean, the way he _looks_ at you—the way you look at _him—”_

“Shut up—”

“It’s so _gross—”_

“You know, you actually took it better than I expected, when you found out we were dating.”

“I’m full of surprises, Dean, what can I say?”

“Sometimes I can’t help but think you were rooting for us, in some really weird, fucked up way.”

“Dean, how could I _not_ be in favour of Castiel pulling his head out of his ass?”

“That’s all there was to it?” Dean asks, laughing as he pushes Ezekiel playfully. Ezekiel grins childishly back at him. “Really?”

“Absolutely.” The angel confirms.

 

…

 

Dean wakes up from a nightmare in a cold sweat, his breathing shallow.

An image of pale, cruel eyes haunts him, as does the oil of a greasy, overly polite voice. It murmurs in his ears in the dim moonlight sweeping into the cold room, shivers trace themselves in waves across his body; he rubs his arms self-consciously with clammy hands, eyes flitting round the darkened room, his breathing growing faster, yet still just as shallow as it was when he bolted awake.

His skull feels too tight for his brain and he thinks he’s going to be sick; his feet are freezing cold and he feels suddenly feverish. This is the first time in _weeks_ he’s had a nightmare—at least one of this nature—and he wonders with a horrible, shivering kind of worry that gnaws at his gut, whether they might have returned for good, now. What is most surprising of all is the fact that he had this nightmare next to _Castiel—_ who he was sure, until this moment, could ward off any number of demons from his past, no matter how big and no matter how scary. Apparently he was wrong.

But why should he have expected that simply sleeping next to Castiel would cure Dean of any of his past traumas? It was stupid of him, anyway, and it’s natural and only fair that he should be so disappointed, and what is more, so terrified by it all. It’s unsurprising, and Dean ought to be utterly unsurprised that Castiel is not some kind of superhero who can cure bad dreams simply by _being_.

He takes a shallow, gasping breath that floods his lungs with air that feels too warm, too dense, and makes his outsides feel even colder. He starts shaking uncontrollably, gasping more, and he tries to regain control of himself—he’s going to wake Cas up, and then he’ll have a lot of horrible, uncomfortable explaining to do—but this only spirals him further out of control; now he is gasping, shaking, hardly able to move save for stopping himself from falling off the bed, he sits at the edge of the mattress and cannot stop, he’s going to wake Cas up, he’s going to wake Cas up _he’s going to wake Cas up—_

And he does; wondering if part of him wanted the angel awake simply to comfort him—but then an ugly, humiliated part of him persuades him that _no,_ he didn’t want that at all—and the curl of a greasy voice whispering horrible pictures and memories in his ear almost drowns out the sound of Castiel’s voice.

“Dean?” The angel asks softly, hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Dean?” He asks again, squeezing and rocking Dean slightly. Dean’s breathing is still ragged and uneven, he still cannot bring himself to turn around and face the angel, he still cannot think of anything but his nightmare and all the horrible things that Alastair did to him, made him do—and this has Dean’s body trembling more than ever, and he thinks he’s started crying, but he can’t be sure, and all he can think of that is positive is the fact that Ezekiel is out fucking some girl from one of his classes and so isn’t here to witness Dean _dying_ because of a fucking nightmare _._

“Dean, did you have a bad dream?” Castiel asks, raising his voice over the shallow, empty gasps of Dean’s breathing—there is nowhere near enough air in the world and Dean wonders if there ever will be again; his head feels giddy, he thinks he’s going to pass out—

All he can do is nod, his whole body following the action as he shakes, and Castiel leaps out of bed and crouches on the floor in front of Dean, taking his hands and pressing his thumbs to Dean’s palms, doing nothing else but looking at Dean.

“Dean, are you alright?”

Dean can’t respond, he shakes his head and tries to pull his hands away out of humiliation, but Castiel holds on tight to them.

“Think about your palms, Dean—can you think about your palms? Can you feel them? Can you feel my thumbs on them?”

Dean nods, now, breaking out into a coughing fit because of how shallow and uneven his breathing has been, and continues he gasping, even as his shaking begins to subside.

“Keep thinking about them. Can you feel them? Can you feel me here, with you?”

Dean nods again, looking away from Castiel—which sets him into trembling again—but the angel takes Dean by the chin and turns his face back again so that his eyes meet once more with Castiel’s; and his breathing grows more steady, though every breath is still gasped.

“You’re in me and Ezekiel’s room. You’re sitting on my bed. I’m sitting in front of you. It’s only us. It’s alright, it’s only us. You had a nightmare. You’re okay. You’re safe, you—”

Dean leans forward in an instant, practically falling, and presses his face into the curve of Castiel’s neck, sliding his arms round the angel and hugging himself into Cas. Cas hugs back, pulling Dean’s body tight against his own and breathing softly against his hair—Dean feels the warm gush of air ruffle it and spread hot tingles over his scalp, he hugs into the sensation and follows Castiel’s instructions of breathing out longer than he breathes in. He relaxes into the angel’s arms, only letting out a few shuddering gasps at irregular intervals as the angel’s fingertips graze softly up and down his back. He tries to ignore the fact that he is crying.

He wants to forget his dream, forget Alastair; he wishes he had never been so young and stupid as to believe that somebody like _Al_ could actually—

Castiel’s fingers have wound gently into Dean’s hair and it’s like he’s cradling the human’s body; he rocks Dean gently for several long minutes of silence; no sound is made apart from Dean’s staggered breathing and Castiel’s gentle reassurances.

He doesn’t ask Dean what the dream was about.

After a while, he pulls away—Dean wants to cry all over again—but Castiel wraps the human in a hoodie that hangs on the end of his bed. Then he takes the duvet and wraps it around Dean, where he sits, on the floor, and kisses Dean on the tip of his nose and explains in the kindest voice Dean thinks he’s ever heard that he’s going to go fetch the human a glass of water.

Dean feels terrified in the moments that Castiel is gone, and when the angel returns, cup in hand, and opens the door, flooding the room with a warm, artificial light that bears a stark contrast to the cold moonlight of the room; Dean feels _himself_ flood with relief.

Cas wraps Dean’s hands around the glass and guides him into drinking—Dean ought to feel patronised but he _can’t;_ he feels safe and looked after and important, and, taking another shuddering breath, he explains all this to Castiel and presses his forehead into the angel’s clavicle.

“You _are_ important.” Castiel reassures, rocking Dean gently again. “And you’re safe here, I promise you.” He guides Dean back up onto the bed. “Are you cold?”

Dean replies that he doesn’t know—he feels bursts of hot and cold explode over his skin and all his insides. He explains this to Cas.

“Maybe you’re feverish.” The angel hums. He glances at Dean worriedly before his expression softens. “I’m so sorry you had a nightmare.” His hand moves to Dean’s shoulder and squeezes gently. “Especially—” He apparently thinks better than to finish this sentence, and instead chooses to say; “They suck—a lot. They’re horrible. Awful. I’m sorry you had such a bad one.”

Dean shrugs and explains that they’re somewhat commonplace for him; and used to be even more so. Castiel’s face turns even more sad; even more filled with some kind of remorse, and he apologises to Dean again.

“It’s not nearly your fault,” Dean lets out an honest, dry laugh, and curls up a little tighter into himself where he sits. “It’s mine, probably—I mean, if I didn’t think about shit so much—”

“That’s simply not the case.” Castiel frowns reprimandingly at Dean—and he has to stop himself from laughing again; if the angel is trying to distract Dean from his nightmare through being entertainingly strict with the human’s habit for self-deprecation, then he is doing an incredible job. “Of course you don’t _cause_ your own nightmares, Dean—how silly—they can’t be helped—I mean, they’re in your _subconscious_.”

“Yeah, but if I thought less—”

“If you felt safer, if you managed to—” Castiel sighs again and cuts himself short. “The point is, you have nightmares, it’s not your fault, there are definite ways of tackling them to stopthem altogether—but I’m here for whenever they _do_ happen. And you can tell me as much or as little about them as you want; you can ask me to get or do anything for you—I’m okay with that. It can be tiny—like a glass of water and a hug—or bigger, like chocolate and tea and a long chat—”

“Cas,” Dean nearly laughs again, pulling the angel into his arms. He nearly laughs because he wants to cover up the fact that he is so touched he thinks he is going to cry, and he nearly cries anyway because he still feels so _shaken_ and he is so unused to someone making him feel so _safe._

“Dean.” Castiel replies, pressing a kiss to the top of Dean’s head before sitting down next to Dean, on the bed. “Is there anything else you need?”

Dean shakes his head. He blushes and thanks Castiel—and then reconsiders, and finally asks the angel not to mention this to anyone.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” Castiel frowns. “And I won’t bring it up to you, either, unless you want to talk about it.”

Dean can only mumble out a quiet, embarrassed thanks. Castiel lies down on the bed, kissing Dean one more time and pulling the human tightly into his arms.


	16. Family Happiness

16.

 

 

Castiel doesn’t bring up Dean’s nightmare the next morning. Nor does he bring up the ones that revisit the human in the next few weeks—one night in three, Dean will be plagued by one of these dreams. Castiel wants to know why it is they have revisited him so suddenly, and with such tremendous force—what it is that the angel can do to help, but he can’t think of anything more cruel than forcing Dean to talk about something which terrifies him so.

So Castiel keeps quiet, is there for Dean for as long as the nightmares occur, will hold him tight long after they end, but won’t speak to Dean about them afterwards. He wonders if this is the right course of action: if speaking about everything that he’s seen would help Dean; he—very selfishly, and much to his own self-guilt—wonders why it is that even when Dean is lying next to Castiel, he still has these dreams. Castiel wonders if Dean ever feels scared that his relationship with Castiel will turn into what this past relationship, the one that was so appalling and traumatic, once was. The thought makes Castiel want to cry; makes him want to prove himself to Dean, prove that he is kind and tender and adores the human with every cell in his body—and he knows that even this is selfish, in a sense, and self-absorbed; and Castiel hates himself for it.

Some nights, Ezekiel is around when the nightmares occur—but he either pretends to be asleep to save Dean from embarrassment, or sleeps through them—both very likely possibilities, considering Ezekiel’s personality. One night, Castiel asks what Dean used to do before he had Castiel to help him through the panic and tears after the nightmares. Dean tells him that he would just have to deal with it himself—only once did he wake up Benny; and by that point he’d managed to calm himself down to the degree that he could convince his roommate that nothing was the matter. At home, he’d go into the bathroom and sit on the cold floor; splash his face with water and try not to wake his family. Castiel knows how much he’d hate to worry them, and it causes the angel a terrible amount of pain to think of Dean sat guilty, worried, crying, on his bathroom floor, staring at a wall until his panicked breaths subsided and he fell asleep there. What makes it worse is that Castiel knows that Dean shared a room with his brother, so the fact that he managed to keep it a secret—

Castiel winds his arms around Dean’s body.

They sleep in Dean and Benny’s room, tonight, the days are getting longer and it only started getting properly dark about a half hour before Dean and Castiel decided to turn in. The air around campus has started to smell of blossom. Dean’s family is coming to visit in a week’s time; they’re taking Dean and Castiel out to lunch, and frankly, Castiel is terrified.

The first time he met them he must have come across as horribly cold and aloof—and that was back when Dean was stammering and shy and terrified, and they must have thought Castiel was an asshat of the highest degree—

Turning where he lies, Dean apparently decides he wants to have his face pressed into Castiel’s shoulder. He hums happily against the angel’s clavicle, and Castiel’s heart sings.

Tonight is a good night.

Tonight, Dean’s dreams have been quiet and contented, just as his expression has been—as if on cue, Castiel feels Dean smile against the angel’s bare skin, which in turn sets on fire in bright, white, dancing flames. Tonight, Dean was telling Castiel about all the silly things Jo used to do as a child: how wild and lovely she was, how stubborn and brilliant she still is—how she would go dance outside barefoot whenever there was a thunderstorm, when Sammy would go hide under his bed; how she would get terrible colds and fevers from this and wouldn’t have a care in the world; how she once got bored of painting on paper and instead decided to start on a new canvas—the walls of their home; how she had cut her hair in front of the bathroom mirror herself when she was four, and how horrified Ellen had been…

Tonight, Dean recited stories of his childhood— _happy_ stories, wonderful stories—for over an hour as he painted; now his body is coiled against Castiel, and if the angel didn’t know any better, he would be convinced that there was nothing wrong with the world.

Months after first kissing Dean, Castiel can only think of how he wants to do nothing else for the rest of his life.

 

…

 

Two days before Dean and Castiel are supposed to have lunch with Dean’s family, Dean opens the floodgates.

“His name was Alastair.” Dean lets out a trembling sigh, sitting on the edge of his bed, Castiel’s hand cautiously resting at the base of the human’s back.

It is the morning after the worst nightmare yet—Ezekiel has left for an early class, and apparently Dean couldn’t stand his own silence any longer. His face is swollen and red, and his eyes are lost in a swim of tears. Castiel isn’t sure what to say—his heart is breaking in the worst pain possible and both Dean’s shaking and silence fracture into him—should Castiel respond? Should he wait? His question is answered when Dean’s quaking voice sounds again, lost and quiet and terrified. “It was—I was seventeen—I was—”

Castiel’s insides tremble. Something rises at the back of his throat, and suddenly he doesn’t know if he can stand to hear this: Dean was so _young—_ Castiel had no idea, and now he thinks he’s going to be sick—

“—And he was—” Dean stammers, shakes, as though he can’t speak; as though he doesn’t know what words to say or what order to put them in, how to say anything without losing himself completely—and Castiel doesn’t know what to do. He is lost; caught between the crushing desire to pull Dean into his arms and never let anything happen to him again, the urge to cry or vomit or both—and the urge not to leave Dean; not like this, but equally not to smother him, not to overwhelm him. These urges pull at him in four directions, tearing the angel apart. “—He was—” Castiel presses his hand a little firmer to the small of Dean’s back, to remind him he’s still there; he’s there for Dean, he always will be—though it’s as much a reminder for Castiel as it is for Dean. “—He started out so soft.” Dean trembles. “So charming and confident and I—” Dean trembles, closes his eyes and squeezes out the tears pressing at his eyes. “—I was such an _idiot_.”

“No,” Castiel finds his voice, now, and shakes his head softly. “No, that’s not true at all. Please don’t think that.”

Dean shudders beneath Castiel’s hand.

“No—” He trembles. “—I should’ve known—when things started to go wrong, I should have known—”

Castiel’s tears have spilled onto his cheeks.

“—He was so soft—but then he started—and then suddenly he wasn’t, anymore—”

Castiel swallows, his insides fracturing at Dean’s words.

“—And then things got out of control—and I was doing things—and it was out of fear—and then one day he went too far—he lost it, and he went too far, and I pushed him too far, and he—” Dean’s sob cuts him off, and Castiel doesn’t hesitate this time before pulling Dean into his arms, the human’s head pressed against the angel’s chest. This was apparently the right thing to do—Dean bites another sob into Castiel’s shoulder and his body is shaking under Castiel’s fingers and in Castiel’s arms and the world has turned grey, something hollow and broken eating at the inside of Castiel because Dean, perfect precious _magnificent_ Dean is broken, too, and it’s killing Castiel. And everything is starting to piece together—Dean’s sudden mood swings, his turns, his bad days, his self-loathing, his night-terrors, his apparent visit to hospital, his scars, all of it.

Castiel rocks Dean gently, whispering hushed comforts and promises of protection, of never leaving the human, as Dean’s tears soak through the material of Castiel’s shirt and his own slip softly down his face.

 

…

 

“Dean!” Jo exclaims, running into Dean with the force of a freight train and knocking all air clean out of him.

“Jo—” He gasps, barely catching his breath before Sammy has done the same. “Sammy—” His tone loses some of its patience.

“We’ve missed you!” Jo beams against him.

“I’ve missed you too,” Dean laughs despite himself, going red in the face.

Ellen pulls Dean away from his brother and sister and into a tight hug of her own. Dean groans with embarrassment.

“ _Ellen—”_

“Don’t complain, kid—I get to see you what, once every four months?!”

“C’mon—”

“So the way I see it, it’s only fair that I get to hug you with all my force whenever I visit you.” She states matter-of-factly, pulling back to tidy Dean’s hair and straighten out his clothing.

“Leave the poor kid alone, Ellen.” Bobby rolls his eyes, before winking at Dean and clapping him warmly on the shoulder. “How’re you doing, Dean?”

Dean is barely given the opportunity to answer before Jo starts talking his ear off about what she’s been doing at school; how all her friends are still _so impressed_ that she has a big brother in college; Ellen has started bombarding him with questions about his health and his grades; Sam remains as intent as ever to find out _everything_ about the university—

“So, Dean, this friend that’s coming to lunch with us,” Ellen starts, and Dean grits his teeth nervously. “Have we met him before? And why do you have to bring a _friend_ to a _family_ lunch, Dean? Honestly, I get to see you _once—”_

“Hey, is that Castiel?” Jo asks, pointing to somewhere in the distance, where Dean is sure the angel is approaching from. “Is _he_ the friend you invited to lunch with us?”

“—Jo, before—”

“But he’s so cold and distant! He hardly says anything at all.” Jo frowns, glaring at Dean as though he’s brought Cas along to deliberately spite her. “Why are you—”

“ _Wait,”_ Sammy interrupts, grabing Dean’s arm. “ _He’s_ the one you _like—_ isn’t he?!”

“Sammy,” Dean starts, trying to correct his brother, but Jo interrupts him.

“Oh yeah! He is! Oh my gosh, Dean—did you invite him along just so you could—”

“No, me and Cas are actually al—”

“Dean, he’s gonna think you’re desperate.” Sam has taken on an infuriatingly knowing tone, and Dean could honestly kick the guy—

“It’s not lame, sweetie—have you even told him you like him?”

“As a matter of fact, Ellen,” Dean starts, resisting the horrible urge to roll his eyes or curl his lip as he speaks, “Castiel and I—”

“Hello,” Castiel has come within earshot, and greets Dean’s family with a warm, small smile. “It’s nice to see you all again.”

“You too, Castiel,” Ellen beams warmly. “I hope you coming along wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”

“Oh, no,” Castiel shakes his head. “Not at all. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Ellen looks slightly baffled, as does everyone else.

Honestly, is the concept of Castiel actually being _interested_ in Dean—let alone dating him—so unreasonable? Judging by the looks on Dean’s family’s faces; they seem to think so.

And shit—Cas doesn’t know that _they_ don’t know that Dean and Cas are dating.

Fuck.

Why didn’t Dean tell his family he’d started dating someone? And that that someone was Castiel? Why did he convince himself that telling his family he had a boyfriend would be the most embarrassing thing he’d ever have to do, and so avoided it completely? Why hadn’t he foreseen these—potentially _infinitely_ more embarrassing—circumstances?!

Bobby suggests that they all get in his car so that they can get lunch sooner rather than later.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, tugging at Cas’s sleeve and holding the angel back for a moment, “There’s something I’ve gotta tell you.”

“What?” Castiel asks, drawing only marginally closer to Dean and frowning in a gentle, lulling confusion—the look has Dean blinking hard for a moment, and he almost forgets himself, but whatever his reply _would_ have been when he pulled himself together, it gets interrupted.

“Dean, are you getting in or not?” Jo rolls her eyes and pushes Dean into the car before squeezing in alongside him and Cas. Dean groans internally. Sammy has already climbed into the back seat, knees squished awkwardly close to his body.

“You comfy back there, Sammy?” Dean can’t help but grin back at his brother, despite everything else that seems to be falling apart around him. Sam gives him the finger and mutters something inaudible under his breath. Dean catches Castiel’s lips twitching upwards.

“So, Castiel, we thought we’d get Italian food?” Ellen calls back from the front passenger seat. “Is that alright with you?”

“That sounds lovely, thank you.” Castiel smiles. His hand slips down to rest beside Dean’s and he tangles his fingers with Dean’s. Nobody else can see it—but it’s enough to have Dean beaming out the window.

“What’re you smiling about?” Bobby glances at Dean in the rear-view mirror and frowns quizzically. Dean forces himself to drop his smile immediately and he frowns back at Bobby.

“What, I can’t be happy to see my family again?”

“You never pull that kind of smile normally.” Bobby squints, looking back at the road.

“It’s probably just because we’re going to get food.” Jo rolls her eyes. Dean shoots her a furious glance across Castiel. She grins back at him.

“Jo, don’t tease your brother.” Ellen sighs.

“It’s not teasing him if it’s true!” Jo exclaims. Dean presses his forehead against the window, but as he does, Castiel’s hand moves to rest on his leg and he nearly bolts upright again.

“What is it?” Sammy frowns at him from the backseat.

“What is what?” Dean glares back, attempting to feign ignorance.

“What made you jump so much just then?” Sam’s tone grows childish and frustrated.

“I didn’t jump.” Dean mimics Sam’s tone, but catches Ellen shooting him a look infuriated enough to shut him up straight away.

“You definitely jumped…” Sammy mumbles.

Dean has never wished his brother were more within kicking distance than he does in this moment.

“So, Sammy—how are you and that girl in you English class going? Have you even spoken to her yet?”

“Dean, tread carefully—”

“Tread carefully or what?”

“Hey, Castiel,” Sam turns to look at Cas, who is about to respond when Ellen butts in very loudly, glaring at Sam as she speaks to Castiel.

“Remind me what you want to do when you graduate, Castiel?” She asks, shooting Sammy a look that Dean is extremely glad he is not on the receiving end of.

“Um, I haven’t quite decided yet,” Castiel admits, looking a little confused by Dean’s family’s antics. “I thought maybe a teacher,” He straightens out his jeans awkwardly as he speaks. “Though I’m not sure I’d have the patience for that…”

“Oh, I’m sure you would,” Ellen nearly gushes in response, beaming at the angel. “You seem like the perfect kind of person to teach people!”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he nods at her in a gracious, modest thanks.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” He lets out a short, pleasantly embarrassed laugh. “I also thought maybe an academic—although that seems a great amount of responsibility, and I’m not sure I could handle that, either.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re extremely bright.”

Castiel laughs, embarrassed, again.

“And journalism seems fun, too? I don’t know, there are a lot of things I _want_ to do, though very few things seem realistic or practical or even possible…” He trails off awkwardly. “Failing any of those, I think working in a library would suit my temperament best—I’m sure those who know me would agree.”

“Oh, I’m sure that whatever you do, you’ll be just wonderful at it.” Ellen replies in her usual manner—she has a habit of telling people, with total conviction, that they are capable of an infinite number of brilliant things.

“That’s very kind of you,” Castiel repeats, looking slightly thrown, though very happy.

“Isn’t there anybody you can talk to for advice about this kind of thing?” Ellen asks with a slight frown.

“Not really—I mean, there sort of are, but I’m not especially sure I’d feel able to talk to them.” Castiel admits. “I find talking about my future and any plans I have, in a formal setting… uncomfortable. I don’t know. It all seems very personal and intimidating. It’s fun to hypothesise in casual conversation, but the moment that it becomes serious…” He pauses a moment, looking pensive. “I disengage, I suppose.”

“I do that.” Sam nods. Dean snorts in response and Jo rolls her eyes.

“Please, Sammy,” Dean grins, “you’ve been planning on going to law school since you were, what—eleven years old?”

“Yeah, but I meant—”

“Well, I don’t know what _I_ wanna do.” Jo points out.

“And you’re hardly under any pressure to have it all figured out.” Sam crosses his arms defensively.

“Neither are you—”

“I’m sure it’s better to take life easy and _not_ plan everything out, anyway,” Castiel cuts through the pair’s squabbling. “I know I didn’t have any idea of what I wanted to do after I left school until months before I actually _did_ leave. I just knew I wanted to enjoy myself—that’s what you should aim to do, I think. Pursue the things that interest you.”

“Cas, it’s _so_ not like you to take things easy.” Dean barks out a laugh. His family cast him a confused glance from where they respectively sit.

“I take some things easy,” A delicate frown knits its way across Castiel’s forehead.

“Like what?”

“I definitely take some things easy.” Castiel repeats, nearly pouting. Dean snorts and bumps his shoulder against the angel’s.

“Dean, stop teasing Castiel,” Ellen sighs. “I can’t believe I’m having to say this on behalf of someone who’s _not_ Jo or Sam—”

“But Dean _is_ a tease.” Sam grins, kicking Dean’s seat. Dean turns around to glare at his brother, only not reaching out to hit him because he is in Castiel’s presence. “What?” He leers. “It’s true—”

“Castiel doesn’t know that Dean’s a tease, though,” Jo joins in, beaming impishly at her brother. “And trust me, Castiel—”

“Kids,” Ellen’s voice turns ominous and Dean spots a flicker of fear rise in his sibling’s eyes, but Castiel manages to stun everyone out of glaring at each other with his response.

“Oh, don’t worry; I definitely know how much of a tease Dean can be.” He bumps his shoulder back against Dean’s and casts the human one of the smallest, most teasing smiles Dean thinks he’s ever seen.

Jo snorts into a fit of giggles after a moment’s stunned silence, Sam just stares at Dean, who can’t help but grin widely, and even Ellen seems to find nothing to say in response. Really, the game ought to be up at this point—surely Dean’s family _must_ suspect that he and Castiel are an item, or at least something along those lines, now—but apparently they seem unable to fathom a world where Dean actually manages to date someone who isn’t an asshole, because Bobby’s response kills the shocked, confused mood, too.

“See, Ellen? Dean’s a douche wherever he goes. It’s not just at home that he tries to piss everyone off.”

And with that—much to Dean’s annoyance—Dean’s family explodes into laughter. Dean even spots Castiel coughing out a laugh into his closed fist, and can only sigh pointedly and stare out the window in response.

Once they arrive, Dean is unable to walk up with Castiel because Ellen seems to be assailing him with questions of his likes and dislikes. He resolves to walk alone, which of course doesn’t work out, and Jo comes crashing into his thoughts as she elbows him somehow both playfully and roughly in his side.

“Try to tone down the obvious attempts at flirting with him, Dean—it’s so obvious you have a raging crush on the guy, and if he can’t tell by _now—”_

“Oh, shut up, Jo.” Sam frowns, butting in—Dean frowns at his brother, confused that the guy is sticking up for him, “It’s obvious that Castiel is flirting back. Carry on doing what you’re doing, Dean—if you—”

“Sorry, how is it obvious that Castiel is flirting back?” Jo glares at her brother.

“How can you miss it? Do I seriously have to outline it to you?”

“Apparently,” Jo scowls.

“Were we even seeing the same thing?!”

“I only saw Dean fawning over the guy sitting next to him—who he _invited out to lunch with his family—”_

“And Castiel accepted!”

“He obviously just felt awkward!”

“That’s just so wrong, I’m not even gonna bother telling you why.” Sam sighs, looking up at the sky, exasperated.

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s what you’ll be able to say when you’re a lawyer—”

“Shut up, Jo! This isn’t a court of law—and anyway, what the hell do you know about the justice system, anyway?!”

“Guys,” Dean starts, but his siblings quarrel over his attempts to calm them.

“Didn’t you see Castiel bumping shoulders with Dean?!”

Dean’s face reddens.

“Yeah, only ‘cause Dean bumped shoulders with him first.”

“So?! They still bumped shoulders!”

“Bumping shoulders doesn’t mean anything!”

“Oh, yeah, like you’d know.” Sammy rolls his eyes, infuriated.

“How do you know what I know?”

“Jo, you’re too young to get any of this, I don’t even get why we’re having this fight—”

Dean winces, drawing a sharp breath of air through his teeth, because if there’s one thing he’s learnt from his years of living with Jo, it’s _not_ to patronise her because of her age.

“What the hell?! Of course I’m old enough to get it! I’m not a _kid—”_

“A little something called the _law_ would beg to differ—”

“Oh, shut up about the law.” Jo snarls. “I can work out when Dean is being too obviously in love with someone, and now is one of those times—”

“But that hardly matters if Castiel is obviously in love with him, too.”

“Both of you, please,” Dean groans, but the pair ignore him once again.

“How did you jump to that conclusion?”

“Okay, what about Castiel’s teasing comment? That was the most explicit flirting I’ve ever seen!”

“How? He was just being funny!”

“Jo, ninety percent of flirting is just being funny. Fiver percent of it is innuendos, the other five percent is compliments.”

“But people are funny all the time—”

“It’s a very specific kind of funny. Like, if they insult you, but it’s in a teasing way, they’re probably flirting; if they—”

Dean steps into the restaurant, desperate not to hear any more.

“Castiel, where would you like to sit?” Ellen asks as Jo and Sam enter, too.

“Um, next to Dean, if that’s alright?” Castiel frowns, slightly quizzically, and Dean is reminded once again what a general disaster this situation is.

“Of course,” Ellen beams, giving Dean a mortifyingly excited, encouraging look when Castiel looks away to take a seat. Dean groans internally and sits beside the angel.

“Dean,” Jo starts, a wicked grin spreading across her face as she takes a seat on the other side of Castiel, “why do you call Castiel ‘Cas’? What’s that about?”

“It’s a nickname, duh.” Sam rolls his eyes as he sits beside Bobby. “What do you _think_ it’s about?”

“Well, I don’t know, it just seemed a little…”

“A little what?” Sam raises his eyebrows at Jo, who purses her lips and squints at her brother in frustration for a moment.

“I don’t know, actually—Castiel, what do you think it is?” She turns to Castiel.

He frowns, confused, for a moment.

“Uh… friendly?” He finishes for her, seeming utterly perplexed.

“Ah, _friend_ ly.” Jo turns back to Sam and beams triumphantly. “Yes, that’s the word. _Friendly.”_

Sam scowls at her for a fraction of a second before speaking to Castiel.

“Is friendly really the best word?” He asks, squinting in some kind of feigned thoughtfulness, screwing his mouth up to make it appear as though he is deep in thought.

“Um… I’m not sure,” Castiel continues frowning. “Maybe something else would suit it better?”

“Well, you said it, not me.” Sam raises his hands in an odd, mock-surrender. “But what word do you think would better summarise it…?”

“Affectionate?” Castiel answers, utterly lost. “I don’t know…”

“Affectionate seems a lot more accurate,” Sam sits back on his chair confidently, looking over to Jo, who scowls back at him. “Would affectionate be a fair word to summarise you and Dean’s relationship, do you think?”

“Sam,” Dean groans under his breath, but Sammy ignores him.

“I suppose?” Castiel lets out an embarrassed laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Sam shakes his head, grinning for a moment—then catches himself, and his gaze snaps back to the angel. “Wait—what did you say?”

“I answered your question…” Castiel answers, his frown growing more noticeable. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yeah, but you just said that you and Dean’s relationship is _affectionate—”_

A waitress arrives to take their orders before Sam can gape any longer. Dean’s insides are wilting slowly with despair, but he finds a glimmer of hope in the thought that at least Sam’s probing was interrupted and can go no further.

“Sorry, Sam,” Castiel turns back to Dean’s brother once the waitress has left, “I’m not sure that I understand.”

The glimmer of hope that had sparked inside of Dean disappears.

“You said affectionate.” Sam stares, wide-eyed at Castiel.

“I did,” Castiel nods, facial expression thoroughly perplexed. “And it is, I suppose. Among other things.”

“Other things?” Jo repeats. “What _else_ are you guys?”

Castiel falters.

“I’m not—sorry, what’s with all the questions?”

“I need to go to the bathroom…” Dean shakes his head, pushing his chair out and standing.

“Are you okay?” Cas’s attention is immediately on him, Dean feels the angel’s fingers falter at his wrist, but Dean brushes him off, hardly even hearing his family’s enquiries as he leaves, feeling nauseated with curious mixture of stress and embarrassment.

After cooling down, he returns to find that their drinks have arrived, and that Jo is being scolded for something apparently terrible. Ellen says she doesn’t want to dignify Jo’s actions by explaining what she did, and Sam glares at her as though she’s ruined something quite awfully. Castiel smiles at Dean as he approaches and looks at the human with something new and different in his eyes, now; something has changed, not just in the mood of the group but in Castiel, and Dean is utterly lost as to what’s going on.

“How’s football going, Dean?” Ellen asks, turning to Dean, still looking furious. Dean isn’t sure he wants to reply.

“Uh, Ellen—are you sure you’re okay? You look—I don’t know, really offended, or something.”

“Not offended.” Ellen shakes her head, casting dagger eyes back over to Jo.

“Then what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” She shakes her head, then forces a smile in Dean’s direction. Jo pulls an apologetic face to her mother, who shakes her head shortly. Dean’s seen the expression a thousand times before; it’s one that tells Jo that Ellen doesn’t want to hear her apologise right now. Dean presses his lips together—Jo must have done something _really_ damn annoying to get Ellen to be this pissed off.

He feels Castiel’s gaze flicker over to him; the angel tangling his fingers with Dean’s under the table. A heat creeps down Dean’s neck; Castiel seems to notice it because a small smile tugs at the angel’s features.

Disastrous as this is, there’s no feeling better than having Castiel’s hand in Dean’s.

 

…

 

“Castiel,” Jo turns to Castiel after Dean has disappeared. “Or should I call you Cas? Or is that something only Dean gets to call you?”

Castiel’s mouth twitches into a slightly taken-aback smile.

“Um—you know, it’s funny—I had this conversation with someone just the other day.”

“Oh?” Sam raises his eyebrows at Castiel. “Do you talk about Dean often?” He glances over at Jo as if this is all part of some game the pair are playing—they’ve been sharing a lot of these such glances, Castiel has noticed, and he’s just as amused as he is lost.

“It’s not necessarily a conversation about _Dean—”_ Jo tries to cut across, but Sam ignores her.

“Well, Castiel?”

“I talk about Dean…” Castiel frowns softly. “…As often as would be expected, I suppose?”

“And how often is that?”

“Kids,” Ellen groans. Castiel’s gaze, still confused, flickers over to her.

“Mum—”

“ _No_.” She glares at the pair. Both fall quiet for a moment. Ellen turns to Castiel and starts asking him more questions—small talk, asking about his family, a conversation topic she fortunately quickly realises is both a sad and uncomfortable one for Castiel, but not before making the observation:

“You know, you and Dean both have a lot in common.”

“I do know, yes.” Castiel confirms, gaze flickering down to the table. He thinks his face is beginning to turn red. “We…” He trails off. Something begins to flutter nervously inside his diaphragm.

“You really do.” Sam nods knowingly. “Ouch!” He glares at Jo, who has apparently just kicked him under the table.

“Jo,” Ellen sighs.

“Cas—what do you think about Dean, as a _person?”_

“As a person?” Castiel repeats, perplexed.

“Yeah, a person.” Sam confirms.

“As opposed to my opinions of him—as an alien?”

Jo snickers behind her hand. Sam glares daggers at her.

“Dean is very funny,” Castiel starts. “And shy, at first, I suppose—but—” He cuts himself off. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Do you like him?” Sam asks.

Castiel frowns. He’s heard of the protective older brother act—he’s taken part in it, even—but he never knew younger brothers could feel so defensive of their older siblings.

“Of course…” He starts, awkwardly. “How could I not?”

Sam’s gaze flickers over to Jo, fiercely triumphant. Jo looks ready to kick her brother again, but instead chooses to turn back to Castiel.

“That’s good,” She nods. “Because Dean’s totally in love with you.”

And just like that, it’s as though the entire world that exists inside the restaurant has exploded. Castiel’s mind and heart have of course both gone into overdrive—because it’s one thing to have _Ezekiel_ joke about Dean being in love with Castiel, a whole different world when a member of Dean’s _family—_ someone who’s known and loved him for _years,_ says it. Ellen and Sam have both barked something that Castiel hasn’t quite caught at Jo, Jo’s triumphant smile is beginning to fade as though she’s only just realised the weight of what she’s done—or maybe has only just realised how much trouble she’s in for it. Bobby is leaning his head into his hands and has groaned something inaudible—and does, _could_ Dean ever love Castiel? It had always seemed some vague and strange hope that the human _would, eventually,_ fall for the angel—and the moment that Castiel admitted he felt it, _needed_ it, had always seemed as though it would be the moment a wave would crash over his head and drown him in something new and scary and _serious,_ but…

It doesn’t feel like that right now.

Dean returns, confused as Castiel is by his family’s antics. Conversation has turned awkward and jilted, and Castiel feels hardly part of it: all he can think of is _does Dean love him? Could Dean love him?_

They’ve hardly been dating for any time at all—well, they _have,_ but not anything serious—when is the right time, Castiel wonders, to start talking of love? To start feeling it? Would it be fair to say he felt it now? Or is this only infatuation? He gets a different kind of butterflies when he looks at Dean than the butterflies he’s got with anyone else, ever—but that could mean anything! Dean is different to anyone Castiel has met; it’s only natural that the angel should feel differently towards Dean than he does to any other of his romantic interests.

Maybe he needs to stop over thinking things. Dean probably isn’t even in love with him—how could he ever; after Castiel treated him so cruelly the first few months they knew each other? It must kill Dean enough to be dating somebody who was so intentionally unkind to him when Dean was so constantly honest and transparent about his own feelings—what would actually _loving_ the person who had been so cruel do to Dean?

And Castiel knows how toxic Dean’s past love life has been. He doesn’t want to contribute to that. Not any more than he has already.

Their food arrives.

Castiel glances over at Dean, whose hand he has been holding tightly for he-doesn’t-quite-know-how-long. Since Dean returned from the bathroom. Dean’s gaze flickers over to the angel and he beams softly. Castiel’s insides are filled with fire and ice.

Fuck, is Castiel really _really_ in love with the human?

No, he tells himself. It’s just an infatuation. Just a silly, uncompromising, stubborn, unchangeable infatuation.

But that’s okay. Dean is infatuated with Castiel, too, the angel thinks—hopes, rather. He wonders how much of Dean’s original feelings towards him remain.

“So, Castiel,” Sam starts, looking up over to the angel. “Do you think college is a good place to meet people? As in, romantically?”

Bobby groans and rolls his eyes again—Castiel finds something about the way the family interacts hugely entertaining, though he can’t quite put his finger on it.

“Sammy, I thought we’d established that I’d had enough of this…” Ellen starts, but Sam shakes his head quickly in response.

“No, you said you’d had enough of _Jo—”_

“Had enough of Jo doing what?” Dean frowns.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ellen shakes her head, looking back over to Dean—Sam seizes the opportunity to spark up the same conversation with Castiel again.

“So, have you met many love-interests in college?”

“If you asked around, I’m sure a lot of people would say Cas has made a _lot_ of—” Castiel tries to elbow Dean quiet before he can finish this sentence. “—Friends.” Dean finishes with a smirk. Castiel glares at the human and shake his head.

“Really?” Sam scoffs. “Is Dean one of your friends?”

“Of course Dean is one of my friends.” Castiel rolls his eyes. He’s growing tired of being both constantly teased and constantly confused.

“A good friend?”

“Why—”

“How long have you been friends?” Jo asks, grinning.

“Not as long as we should have been, probably.” Castiel admits, glancing over to Dean.

“What does that mean?”

“Enough with the questions, you two,” Bobby starts. Both Jo and Sam ignore him.

“So, wait—”

“What were you and Dean before you were friends?”

“That’s a good question—” Castiel admits.

“So you didn’t always like him?”

“Why do you jump to that conclusion?”

“Well, it’s hardly gonna be _Dean_ that didn’t like _you—”_

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to know what I mean.” Jo rolls her eyes.

“Jo!” Ellen exclaims.

“It’s kind of true, Cas.” Dean frowns. “I mean, you _didn’t_ like me.”

“That’s not how it was.” Castiel shakes his head.

“Why didn’t you like him?” Sam glares at Castiel. The angel is confused once again by the idea that a younger sibling could be the one to fill in the ‘protective’ act.

“I _did_ like him—”

“It doesn’t sound like it.” Sam continues to glare. Castiel only just notices how unnaturally tall the boy is for his age.

“At least he likes you now, Dean,” Jo points out. “Could be worse.”

“I always liked him—” Castiel tries to interject.

“Not true.” Dean shakes his head, growing frustrated.

“Don’t get annoyed, Dean—”

“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t _lying.”_

“I’m not lying.” Castiel frowns, frustrated at how poorly his attempts at defending himself are faring.

“Cas, it’s fine, we’ve already established—”

“But it’s not the case—I mean, the moment I got to _know_ you—”

“Maybe now isn’t the time for this conversation.” Dean shakes his head.

“Oh, it definitely is.” Jo disagrees, staring, fascinated, at the pair.

 _“Jo—”_ Ellen groans.

“Is anybody else really confused?” Sam asks, glaring, lost, at Dean and Castiel.

“Honestly, yes,” Castiel begins to turn to Dean’s brother, but Dean interrupts him.

“Cas, you _hated_ me—”

“But then I actually _talked_ to you—”

“You did seem kind of frosty when we first met you.” Jo remarks, sipping her drink and gazing with great interest at Castiel, as if ready to gauge his response.

“That’s just… me…” Castiel shakes his head. “It wasn’t intentional—”

“You know what, we don’t need to talk about this,” Dean shakes his head, glancing apologetically at Castiel. “Cas, I’m sorry about this—you guys, stop it, okay?”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Castiel shakes his head, frowning softly at Dean.

“Cas, I—”

Castiel pulls Dean’s hand up to his mouth and kisses Dean’s knuckles softly before the human can finish his sentence.

“It’s really fine,” Castiel shakes his head again, before leaning forward and kissing Dean’s lips.

Everyone is staring at Castiel and Dean.

Dean is looking at Castiel with bright, wide, green eyes. Everyone else is entirely taken aback—but why?

“Wait—” Sam frowns, glaring at both Dean and Castiel.

“What is it?” Castiel glances quizzically back at him.

“Dean—” Ellen starts, but seems to find herself lost for words.

“Um—” Dean stammers, gaze flickering nervously back to his family. “So—I guess—now’s the time to tell you all—” He coughs uncomfortably into his hand. “—Cas and I are—”

Bobby raises his eyebrows at Dean. Jo stares at him with disbelief.

“Castiel and you are…?” Ellen looks questioningly at Dean.

“…Are…” Dean balls his fists in his lap and fumbles uncomfortably with them. Castiel frowns warily at the human. “…Dating, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Dean’s gaze flickers awkwardly over to Castiel.

“I mean,” He starts, frowning cautiously. “Yeah—we’re kind of—”

“Wait, you didn’t tell them?” Castiel asks, frowning back at Dean. “Why not?”

“You and Castiel are _dating?!”_ Jo asks incredulously, as though such a concept is somehow beyond her comprehension.

“Um—”

“As in, _dating_ dating?” Sam asks, glaring at his brother.

“Yeah, dating dating…” Dean blushes furiously.

“Why didn’t you _tell_ us?”

“Yes, why _didn’t_ you tell them?” Castiel continues frowning at Dean.

“What kind of dating are we talking about, here?”

“Bobby, he took Castiel to lunch with his family—”

“That could mean anything—”

“Not from where I’m sitting.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?!”

“Because I knew you’d be embarrassing.” Dean groans, head in hands. “And because you’d—I don’t know—”

“What?”

“Do this—” Dean gestures vaguely. “Act like—I don’t know—you’re all acting so surprised! Is it really so surprising that Castiel would like me back?”

Something in Castiel’s heart softens.

“We’re acting surprised because you only just told us after Castiel _kissed_ you—”

“You would’ve acted surprised anyway.” Dean glowers. “More than surprised. You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“Why the hell do you think that?”

“Because it’s true, Bobby, I don’t know!” Dean glares. “I’d planned on telling you today, I thought that would be the best way to do it—”

“And what, scare us all shitless?”

_“Sam!”_

“What?!”

“And I did _try_ to tell you.” Dean continues, glaring at his family.

“When?”

“All day! But you’ve just been talking over me every time, and—”

“But why didn’t you tell _me_ they didn’t know?” Castiel asks, frowning softly.

Dean sighs guiltily.

“I guess—it just all felt a little uncomfortable. I don’t know. I couldn’t really—I mean, it was embarrassing…”

“As embarrassing as this situation has been?”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards into a self-deprecating smile.

“It’s difficult to say.”

Castiel sighs, biting down on a laugh.

“How long has this been going on?”

“Since—early March, I guess? What do you mean by ‘this’?”

“You and Castiel dating, obviously.” Jo rolls her eyes.

“We had a kind of awkward start—”

“It wasn’t that awkward.” Castiel counters, frowning.

“More or less awkward than this?” Sam grins.

“Different kind of awkward.” Dean rolls his eyes at his brother. “The uncertain kind of awkward.” He explains. “Would you agree?” He turns to Castiel, raising his eyebrows defiantly.

“I suppose.” Castiel concedes.

“So you and Cas are—” Sam squints at his brother. “I mean—you know I was rooting for you, Dean—but this is so—”

“Rooting for us?” Castiel enquires.

“Yeah—Dean’s liked you for _ages,_ Cas—”

“Well, I knew that.” Castiel nearly snorts. Dean looks quietly offended. “Sorry,” His hand grazes Dean’s arm and he looks apologetically at the human.

“Like, before Christmas—”

“Yes, I noticed.” Castiel chuckled.

“Did you like him?”

Castiel’s face heats.

“I did.” He admits. Ellen beams. Dean smiles softly, embarrassed again.

“Really?”

“Again, why are you so surprised by that?” Dean glares at his brother.

“I don’t know,” Sam laughs. “I’m just used to you dating _assholes—_ and Castiel is really kind of—”

“—Nice?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods.

“Thank you?” Castiel frowns quizzically. Dean’s family, all except for Dean, begin to laugh.

“So if you liked him back then, and he so obviously liked you—”

“I was a little…” Castiel thinks of how best to phrase this. “Well, I tried to ignore it for as long as I could, I suppose. But your brother is…” He trails off and glances at Dean.

“Persuasive?” Sam smirks.

“Dean never tried to persuade me.” Castiel laughs, shaking his head.

“Of course he didn’t,” Jo rolls her eyes at what she apparently perceives to be Sam’s absolute ignorance on everything related to Dean. “Have you seen the way Dean acts around the people he has crushes on? He can hardly _speak_ to them.”

“But that’s not how it _used_ to be—remember before—”

Dean glares at Sam, who realises what he has said and falls guiltily quiet.

“Dean was too brilliant to even attempt to ignore.” Castiel states, cutting through the uncomfortable silence. “That’s what I was going to say. I couldn’t keep on pretending that I didn’t like Dean—I grew far too attached to him far too quickly.” He admits. “And…”

Dean is blushing furiously, but his smile tells Castiel not to stop.

“How did you and Dean actually get together, then?” Jo asks.

Castiel glances at Dean, wondering if the human would prefer to answer this, or to omit any details, but Dean says nothing.

“I kissed him.” Castiel admits. “One evening after we’d been talking for—I don’t know, hours. Though it didn’t feel as long as it probably was.” He laughs shortly. “I hadn’t been speaking to him much for the months before that—I was trying to detach myself—I don’t really like feeling so many things at once for one person, it leaves me feeling… vulnerable. But—then he came round, looking for Ezekiel, and we started talking and I couldn’t stop thinking about how…” Castiel laughs, trailing off, and looks down. “And after a while—we went outside to talk—I asked Dean if he wanted me to kiss him—sorry, this might be too much information—”

“No, it’s fine.” Ellen beams. “I think it’s adorable.”

“Yeah, and that’s not at all patronising, is it?” Dean’s jaw clenches uncomfortably. Castiel slips his hand into the human’s again.

“He said that he’d like me to.” Castiel finishes. “So I did. And the next day—after much awkwardness and confusion—”

“On whose part?”

“Both,” Castiel shrugs. “I think—well, I _know_ that Dean thought I regretted it; and I thought that I’d taken advantage of Dean and that he wouldn’t want anything to do with me… Well, I guess we were both wrong, luckily,” He laughs nervously. Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “So I asked him out. And—obviously—he said yes.” Castiel beams.

“That’s cute.” Jo glances at Dean with a kind of mocking affection. Dean stares back at her, choosing not to rise.

“I thought so.” Dean deadpans in response.

“And you and Castiel are—official, now?” Ellen asks, smiling both expectantly and nervously.

“Yes,” Castiel laughs. “We are.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Ellen beams, turning to Dean. “I still can’t believe you didn’t tell us!”

“Well, that doesn’t change the facts—”

“Castiel, any time you want to stay round with us, you go right on ahead—you hear me?”

“Of course,” Castiel’s eyes crinkle at their corners. “Thank you very much.”

“It’s really no problem—oh, I was wondering why Dean seemed so happy!”

“People can be happy for reasons outside of being in a relationship—” Dean begins with a frown.

“Next time Dean comes home, please do come with him—you’re such a nice young man—it’s so nice to see Dean dating somebody so kind for a change.” Ellen gushes.

“I’m not nearly as kind as I’m sure he deserves, I’m afraid.” Castiel shakes his head, taking Dean’s hand in his own again and squeezing it warmly. Dean laughs and shakes his head, looking away.

“You two do seem like an awfully good match.”

“I’m glad to know we’ve got your seal of approval, Ellen.” Dean rolls his eyes again.

“You _do_ seem to get along pretty well—”

“You sound surprised?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Only pleasantly surprised.” Sammy grins back.

“But Castiel seems so _nice.”_ Jo shakes her head before Dean can reply to his brother.

“And what’s your point?” Dean glares back at his sister, who seems to realise what she’s said, because she falters slightly—if only for a moment.

“Well,” Jo starts, biting her lip, “only that it’s _nice_ to see you with someone who isn’t—”

“A dick?” Dean finishes for her, taking pity on his sister, however much it makes him wince.

“Yeah,” She slumps slightly. “Sorry. You know what I meant.”

“I guess.” Dean admits. He looks away.

“So, Castiel—you’re older than Dean, aren’t you?”

“By two academic years, yes.”

“When do you turn twenty one?”

“August.”

“Oh! Summer time—are you planning on doing anything exciting?”

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admits, laughing softly. “I hadn’t thought too much about it, honestly.”

“Well, you’d be welcome to come and stay with us to celebrate for a little while! We’d really love to have you—and I’m sure Dean would, in particular.”

Castiel glances at Dean, lips twitching upwards. The human has turned bright red.

“If he’d like that, then I’d love to.” Castiel brushes the back of his hand against Dean’s knuckles.

“Of _course_ he’d like that.” Sam rolls his eyes. Dean seems to be so distracted by Castiel’s hand against his that he hardly notices his brother’s teasing.

“I do have a younger sister, though—”

“Oh, she can stay with us too, if you’d both like that.” Ellen quickly suggests. “I know we’d love to have you—and it’d be lovely for Jo to have another girl around the house. Is she much younger than you?”

“She’s eighteen.”

“Oh—then maybe a little too old to be friends—”

“I’m sure she’d love to meet Jo,” Castiel smiles at Dean’s sister, who beams back, apparently very happy at this—and if it weren’t for the stunned look in Dean’s eye, Castiel would hardly realise what he’s just agreed to. Is he doing this? Is he really doing this? Is he not only agreeing to stay with Dean’s family for what could be days, _weeks_ , but also to introduce his own family to them? His _only_ family?

And such an intimate part of him, as well—Castiel is closed off, especially about his family, because he lost so much of it so young—

“What’s her name?” Jo cuts through his thoughts, still beaming. Castiel doesn’t want to be reminded of his own sister by looking at Jo, from when Rachel was much younger, but somehow he is anyway. He scowls inwardly at the connection, wishing furiously to cut it and close himself off again.

“Rachel.” He answers.

“Does she want to go to college, too?” Ellen asks.

“Yes,” Castiel answers. “She thinks she wants to major in literature.”

“Lovely,” Ellen beams.

“Yes, I think it suits her.” Castiel nods, looking down.

“You like books, too?”

“Books, poetry, theatre,” Castiel glances up to answer Sam. “Everything, really.”

“Do you have a favourite?” Sam asks. “Book, that is. I don’t know too much about the other two.”

“I’m not sure.” Castiel admits, cracking a smile and laughing at last. “If I tried narrowing it down…” He trails off and shrugs, laughing again. “One of the first—well, one of the first _proper_ conversations me and Dean had was about books.”

“Really?” Sam snorts. “Dean’s surprisingly well-read, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Castiel confirms, grazing his shoulder against Dean’s.

“I always said it’d come in handy.” Sam winks at Dean.

“Believe it or not, Sammy, some people read for pleasure.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Not just to get laid. Even if it works.”

Jo snorts her drink out of her mouth she laughs so hard.

Ellen hisses a reprimand in Dean’s direction.

Castiel catches Bobby chuckling quietly to himself.

“Sam,” Castiel tries to cut through without laughing himself. “While I think of an answer to your question of favourite books—perhaps you could tell me which yours is?”

Sam’s eyes crinkle at their corners and he shrugs. Castiel has at least quietened Jo’s fit of giggles—which were first in response to Dean’s comeback, then at the fact that she managed to spit out most of her water because of the wit of it, along with Ellen’s furiously hissed chidings at Dean for being _so inappropriate._

“I don’t know,” Sam shrugs again, “I guess you were right—it _is_ a difficult question.”

“Probably some dumb lawyer book—”

“Maybe The Prince, by Machiavelli,” Sam leers at Dean, who squints back.

“You’ve read Machiavelli?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He’d heard from Dean that his brother was clever, but—

“No,” Sam admits, shaking his head and grinning. “That’s a lie. Dean’s introduced me to a few really good books, though,” his eyes crinkle at their corners as he glances over to his brother.

“Has he?” Castiel beams. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“He introduced me to this poet—Something… Neruda? He’s really good—have you heard of him?”

Dean chokes on his food.

Castiel beams and laughs softly.

“Yes, I believe I have.” He answers modestly.

“Really?”

“Cas—uh, Cas was the one who introduced me to him.” Dean admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh.” Sam laughs. “Now I get why you were gushing about his stuff so much.”

Castiel tangles his fingers with Dean’s.

“That’s so sweet!” Ellen beams.

“Ellen, I swear, if you carry on—”

“My favourite book is probably—ah, screw it, maybe The Hobbit.” Sam answers, finally.

“Fair enough,” Castiel smiles. “I’d say that’s a very good choice.”

“I’m glad you’re not judging me for it.”

“Only internally, don’t worry, Sam.” Castiel replies. Dean snorts again.

“Dean’s favourite—I wonder if I can guess it?” Sam squints at his brother.

“Give it a go.” Dean shrugs.

“Probably _not_ Hemingway, even though you talk about him _way_ more than he deserves…”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Maybe—nope, I’ve got it—it’s gonna be On The Road, isn’t it?”

Dean looks up at his brother in surprise.

“Yeah, probably.” He laughs. “How did you get that?”

“I saw you reread it about fifty times in the months before you left for college.” Sam laughs.

“It’s very nostalgic!” Dean frowns back, defensive.

“I’m sure,” Sam smirks. “Also, I bet you’re totally in love with Jack Kerouac—”

“I am _not_ totally in love with him—”

“Only partially, then?” Sammy leers.

Dean groans and looks away.

“So you admit it?”

“He is _very_ your type, Dean.” Castiel teases, elbowing the human softly.

“ _Very_ my type?”

“I think so.” Castiel nods.

“I think so, too.” Sam agrees.

“Good for you.” Dean deadpans. “What makes you think he’s my type?” He turns to Castiel and asks.

“I don’t know,” The angel shrugs. “You always seemed to me to like those aloof, poetic types with dark hair—”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“Always really pretentious, y’know the ones—” Sam interjects. Dean laughs sarcastically at his brother.

“Persuasion by Jane Austen is a very nostalgic book, too.” Ellen interjects, smiling at something that seems quite distant to Castiel.

“You like Austen?” He asks, smiling.

“Yes, love her.” Ellen answers. “Do you?”

“I’ve only read Sense and Sensibility—though very much enjoyed it. Is Persuasion good?”

“It was her last book—and my favourite.” Ellen nods. “Very wistful—it’s about an older girl, so it’s not like her others in that respect—who loved someone when she was very young, though was persuaded against marrying him—and then he returns, almost a decade later, and she’s obviously still in love with him, and—” She beams, cutting herself off. “Oh, you’ll have to read it. It’s very lovely, though. Absolutely heartwarming.”

“I’m sure,” Castiel chuckles softly.

“I’ve only ever read Pride and Prejudice by her.” Dean states. “I don’t know if I liked it—it was a bit—I don’t know. All that flowery language of nineteenth century Britain? I don’t know…”

“You have no class, Dean.” Ellen teases.

“Obviously.” Dean replies, grinning.

“What’s your favourite book, Jo?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know,” Jo shrugs. “Maybe I don’t read enough.”

“Probably not.”

Jo sticks her tongue out at her oldest brother.

“You know C. S. Lewis?”

“Of course,” Castiel beams.

“I like him.” Jo nods, turning back to her food. “And I like the idea of magical worlds.”

“Absolutely.” Castiel nods. “What about you, Bobby?”

“Probably something by Kafka.” Bobby shrugs.

Castiel is pleasantly surprised.

“I’ve only ever read Metamorphosis.” He replies. “I thought it was brilliant, though.”

“Yeah, creepy, too.” Bobby shakes his head, laughing.

“Very.” Castiel agrees.

“Read The Trial, by him. It’s a good one.”

“I will do.” Castiel nods quickly.

“I could lend it to you, if you’d like.” Bobby suggests. “If you’re as broke as Dean is—”

“I’m not _that_ broke!” Dean frowns.

“That’d be very kind, thank you.” Castiel cuts in quickly. Bobby nods and smiles.

“No problem, kiddo.”

When they have all finished, Ellen, Sam, Jo and Bobby drop Dean and Castiel back at campus. Ellen spends the whole time telling Castiel how welcome he is at their home, any time. Castiel spends the whole time worrying how much he likes Dean’s family. How quickly everything seems to be moving.

Castiel doesn’t have commitment issues—though it feels like the millionth time he’s told himself this, in his relationship with Dean, alone.

Everyone he’s slept with, everyone he has been with, has told him this before, though. Even _Meg,_ the most laid-back person Castiel thinks he’s ever encountered, pointed out the fact that the day Castiel chose to settle with somebody would be the day somebody honestly _didn’t_ find Ezekiel annoying.

If Meg saw so little hope for Castiel, was there any chance of there being any hope at all?

It was hardly likely.

Bobby complains to Dean again for not telling them all sooner that he was dating Castiel. He points out on multiple occasions how much awkwardness, embarrassment and confusion it would have saved them all.

If Dean felt too scared to tell his family of his relationship with Castiel, then what does that say about the human? Perhaps he’s just as afraid of commitment as Castiel is?

Unlikely, Castiel sighs inwardly. Every step forward Castiel takes with Dean seems to bring the human unprecedented, awkward, endearing joy.

Castiel nearly smiles at the thought.

But why does the thought of actually _going somewhere_ with a person scare him so much? Of course, Castiel has never liked feeling vulnerable, but it _can’t_ just be that.

He slips his hand unconsciously into Dean’s.

It’s strange how instinctive the gesture is—and has become to Castiel. He does it whenever he worries about something. And whenever the human needs comforting. And when the human has done something especially endearing.

And shouldn’t that answer any of Castiel’s fears? Dean is so _different_ and _special,_ compared to anyone Castiel has ever met, he feels so _bound_ to him; so caught up and tangled in everything that the human is. Isn’t that proof that Castiel is allowed to let go, to let himself fall—

He cuts this thought short, as he does all the thoughts that stray into the territory of him admitting to himself the extent of his feelings towards the human. Another time. Another day. Maybe another month, another _year_ , before he can do that.

He hopes to muster up the courage to be completely honest to Dean and to himself before then—but more than this, he hopes that he and Dean last _far beyond_ the stretch of another year. Which hardly seems a stretch at all, with Dean, now that Castiel thinks about it.


	17. Today Is Not Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry for how long this took! I think this story is going to have one/two more chapters and then a hiatus of like 3 months so I can get on with publishing my other story (please say if you'd rather I didn't do that) which means that I'll get to Dean and Cas spending the summer together and then leave it there for a few months, before continuing into Dean's second year and the rest of the story.
> 
> Hopefully that sounds okay with all of you? I won't leave it on a cliffhanger or anything like that, it's literally only so I can get onto publishing the story that I've been promising for over a year. Because of exams my updates are going to continue in being very sporadic and for that I can only apologise, I'm trying to make time for writing but I don't want to avoid revising so there's little I can do on that front.
> 
> Anyway, really hope you enjoy, my next story is probably going to be called "The Devil's Epitaph" or something like that so keep an eye out for it.

 

17.

 

Castiel enters Dean’s dorm to find him crying softly, defeatedly on his bed. An old record is playing; spinning lazily on Dean’s record player, the music drawling out of it slowly—it’s a sad song—or rather, a bittersweet one: sentimental and melancholic and lost both in itself and in mourning. And Dean seems so lost to it that he hasn’t even heard Castiel enter the room: he doesn’t move at the sound of Castiel entering, nor does he stir—the human lies despondently on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his left hand fisting onto the sheets of his bed as tightly as possible. It’s as though he’s afraid he’s going to fall straight off his bed and off the curved face of the earth—he is pressing the heel of the palm of his right hand, hard, into each of his eyes, rubbing them to the point that it should be causing him physical pain. Castiel frowns, something unhappy shooting along the inside of his chest at the sight of Dean in this state. He kneels down beside Dean’s bed.

“Dean?” He asks gently, brushing his hand against the human’s. “Are you okay?”

The human seems utterly unperturbed by the angel’s presence—or as unperturbed as he could be in this situation—and lets out a low, broken sob.

“I miss my mom.”

“Oh.” Castiel says, softly. He doesn’t know what to say. “Ellen—?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, fresh tears swarming onto his face. “My _mom_ mom.”

“Oh—” Castiel says again, uselessly. He finds his voice cracking in rather a similar manner to that in which Dean’s is. He finds himself understanding the human’s sorrow more than he could ever care to admit. The sting of tears prickles at his eyes. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be—I didn’t deserve her.” Dean shakes his head. “It was my fault she died—‘cause I didn’t deserve her—”

“No.” Castiel frowns. “That’s not true at all.” He squeezes Dean’s hand tightly, but the human doesn’t seem to notice, because new sobs break out from his body; and something about this has Castiel’s heart breaking with hurt. “What— _who_ made you think that?”

“Why does it matter?” Dean groans, rubbing at his eyes again, but if it is an attempt to stop himself from crying, then it is to no avail. “It’s true.” He sobs out the words as though they break his heart just to think about.

“No it’s not.” Castiel shakes his head. He squeezes at Dean’s hand, again. Once again, the human doesn’t notice. Once again, Castiel’s heart breaks.

“I don’t deserve you—” Dean shakes his head, frantically. “You’re so perfect and I’m so broken and dirty and ugly—”

Castiel leans down to rest his forehead against Dean’s.

“No.” He shakes his head, certainly. “None of that’s true.”

Dean bites down on a sob and looks away.

“Dean, look at me.”

Apparently the human can’t find himself able to.

“What’s put you in this mood?” Castiel frowns. “What’s made you like this?”

“Life.” Dean shrugs, bitterly, another sheet of tears pressing at his eyes. Castiel watches them cloud over the human’s jade irises before pooling to the point that they spill over onto his face, following the dips and lines of his skin, already damp from earlier tears.

“Dean,” Castiel’s face lines a little further with worry. “I’d like you to be a little more honest than that.”

Dean pushes Castiel away and sits up, rubbing at his eyes again, but pretty soon his body starts shaking again, instead of him being able to collect himself, however much the human seems to be trying to still his trembling frame.

“I don’t know.” Dean shakes his head. His body trembles. Castiel moves to press his palm to Dean’s back, to the space inbetween his shoulder blades, and rubs in slow, soft circles. “I’ve always—” Dean’s voice breaks off. “I don’t know.” He looks away, as though he wants Castiel to stop touching him. The angel does this, hurt spiking inside his chest. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop saying that.” Castiel says firmly, frowning and pressing a gentle kiss to the rise of Dean’s cheekbone. “It’s not true; and it’s upsetting me.”

“Sorry.” Dean croaks. The music continues to rumble out the record player. Castiel falls silent for a moment.

“Bob Dylan?” The angel smiles softly, his hand returning to Dean’s body and rubbing slow, gentle circles onto Dean’s lower back. The human’s lips twitch only marginally upwards, but it sparks a soft and certain hope in the space behind Castiel’s heart.

“Yeah,” Dean nods, the motion short and quiet. “I don’t know—listening to him always makes me feel—well, I don’t know…” The human shrugs, his cheeks tinging with pink. “He reminds me of home. Of mom, of dad.”

“They listened to him?” Castiel asks, smoothing his thumb gently over the material of Dean’s shirt. He feels the human relaxing softly at his touch beneath his fingers.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “My dad liked classic rock, mainly—but Bob Dylan was kind of an exception.”

“And your mother?” Castiel asks gently, grazing his nose against Dean’s temple. “What music did she like?”

“She always sang me The Beatles as lullabies.” Dean’s lips twitch upwards. Castiel exhales a soft laugh. “I know you said that John Lennon was racist—”

“But their music comforts you.” Castiel smiles warmly.

“—Yeah.” Dean falters before answering.

“Because they remind you of your mother?”

“Yes.” Dean confirms.

“She must have loved you very much.” Castiel kisses a point just below Dean’s ear. He watches the human sigh slightly at the touch. “And Bob Dylan reminds you of her, also?”

“Of both of them.” Dean nods. He sighs—it is less despondent than it is calmed.

“I’m so sorry for everything that’s happened to you, Dean.” Castiel says softly, pressing his face against Dean’s cheek.

“I—” Dean cuts himself off again. Castiel suspects he was about to make a comment on how he deserved all the terrible things that have happened to him. “You’ve been through much the same.” The human shrugs, instead of any of this.

“But not all of it.” Castiel says, shaking his head. Dean stills slightly in his arms. “Not everything that you’ve been through. And I can’t begin to imagine it.”

Dean’s lips have pressed into a thin line. Castiel knows how much the human prefers to avoid bridging the subject of Alastair, even if it causes him so much distress to bottle up.

“So long, honey bee,” Castiel smiles against Dean’s temple, noting how the human relaxes again into his arms now that Castiel has changed the subject, has returned to simply comforting the human. Castiel’s smile turns into a beam at the content washing _finally_ over Dean’s features. “Where I’m bound, I can’t tell.”

“Goodbye’s too good a word, babe,” Dean sighs, letting Castiel hum the tune, grazing his nose against Dean’s features, as he cards his fingers idly through Dean’s soft hair. “So I’ll just say: fair thee well.”

“I ain’t saying you treated me unkind.” Castiel chuckles, low and soft as Dean tilts his head back and closes his eyes, the contented smile pulling at his features still more. The last of the human’s tears tip out of the corners of his eyes and onto his face. He hums out a low, happy sound; finally calmed, as the angel continues to sing gently to him. “You could’ve done better but, I don’t mind.”

“You just kinda wasted my precious time—”

“But don’t think twice, it’s alright.” Castiel beams, nudging at Dean’s nose tenderly. He adores the way that Dean’s eyelashes flutter softly at the touch, the way that he sighs gently through his nose and leans back on the bed. Castiel doesn’t know if he should press Dean to talk about his feelings. He knows being honest about his emotions and thoughts is something that the human is fairly appalling at—but, all things considered, Dean has every excuse to be that way. And what little information Dean has trusted to Castiel, the angel knows for a fact is of infinite meaning to the human—and the fact that Dean trusted Castiel enough to share it with him is something that Castiel cannot quite get over. He leans back, beside Dean, and tugs the two of them into a more comfortable position as they lie, wrapped around one another.

He just wants to make things alright. Or at least attempt to do so.

“Do you want to open up for a bit?” Castiel asks softly, careful not to press the human too hard. “Talk about it? About how you feel?”

He feels Dean’s tired exhalation against his chest. Closes his eyes. Braces himself for whatever Dean’s answer may be.

“I don’t know.” The human admits. His voice is quiet and sincere. “I just—” His voice cracks. He apparently doesn’t know how to continue.

“You don’t have to talk about it.” Castiel reminds, smoothing his hand softly up and down Dean’s back. “I just think it may do you some good. But it’s your choice. Totally your choice.”

Dean nods against the angel’s chest.

“Okay,” He nods. “I’ll—just—can we stay like this? I mean, keep holding me. Don’t go. Don’t stop. Please?”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel says tenderly, his voice quiet as the human’s. “Whatever you want. Whatever you want at all. Whatever you need.”

He loves Dean. He loves Dean, and it kills him to see the human in this state. Castiel loves Dean to his bones.

They stay like that for ten minutes, listening to the warming, lazy drawl of Dean’s music, before the human speaks again.

“You must think I’m an idiot.”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “Not at all.”

“Why not?” Dean frowns, genuinely confused.

“Why should I?” Is Castiel’s response.

“Because I was so _stupid—”_

“What happened to you—it happens to a lot of people—you know that, right?”

Dean looks down.

“I guess…”

“And it couldn’t possibly be your fault—”

Dean sighs and presses his forehead against Castiel’s, closing his eyes.

“I should’ve known…”

“How _could_ you have known?” Castiel frowns.

“I shouldn’t be putting all this on you—”

“You’re not ‘putting’ anything on me, Dean—I want you to be happy, and that means _helping_ you—”

“What if there _is_ no helping me?”

“I can’t believe that.” Castiel shakes his head. He worries at his lip.

“But—I mean, Cas—” Dean pulls away from the angel slightly, his tone fearful yet sincere, “if I gave you an out, now—saying that there’d be no hard feelings—only that you wouldn’t have to put up with me—”

“Dean—” Castiel’s voice breaks.

“No, listen,” Dean shakes his head. “I’m not gonna get better—do you understand that? It’s not something I can fix—”

“You’re not _broken—”_

“Do you _really_ want to spend forever with me waking up crying from nightmares every week, you having to calm me down and tell me it’s all gonna be alright—”

“I want to spend forever with you, whatever that’ll mean.” Comes Castiel’s honest response, before he can stop himself. His eyes have glazed over with tears. He glares at Dean. Dean seems to catch what the angel has said and stares back at him.

“You can’t mean that.” He says quietly.

“And you get to decide what I mean and I don’t?”

“I didn’t mean—”

Castiel looks up at the ceiling.

“I only ever wanted—” He coughs, ending his sentence. “I don’t know—I want you to find peace… If you can’t find that with me, I—”

“Cas, if it weren’t for me spending all my nights with you—my nightmares coming back would’ve meant them happening _every night.”_ Dean sighs. “Having you with me… even after I have them—you make it so much better.”

“I’m glad—”

“But I don’t want you to stay because you feel like you have to.”

“And I’m not.” Castiel shakes his head. He’s seconds away from telling Dean how much he loves him. Instead, he says: “And I don’t want you to leave because you feel like _you_ have to. I don’t ever want—” He sighs and trails off. Something soft sparks behind Dean’s eyes. The human presses a kiss to Castiel’s nose.

“It still doesn’t make sense,” He laughs, “that you even _like_ me, and that you’re always so _kind—”_

“I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you, Dean.” Castiel replies honestly. It’s as close as he can come to telling the human how much he truly means to Castiel. Dean sighs and trails is fingers through Castiel’s feathers.

“Yeah?” He asks softly.

“Yeah.” Castiel nods shyly. “And it’s not something I think I could replace.”

Dean kisses Castiel.

“You’re nothing like him.” He sighs as he pulls back, resting his forehead back against Castiel’s, fingers still trailing through the angel’s hair. The touch feels like heaven on earth to Castiel.

“Good.” Castiel mumbles.

“Whole worlds apart.” Dean’s lips twitch upwards. “That was like, the first thing I noticed about you. You have such a warm, gravelly voice—all honey and warmth and roughness—” Castiel finds himself flushing and laughing softly at Dean’s words, kissing the human’s nose, embarrassed. “—And Alastair was so—” Dean’s smile fades, his expression falters. “He was all nasal and greasy and smooth and I came to hate it so much—” He looks down. Castiel thinks he feels the human shiver in his arms.

“Dean, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to—”

“—And at first I thought it was hot—kind of mature and confident and self-assured in a way I wasn’t used to—I was so young and inexperienced and stupid and I’d never been with a guy like that before—”

Castiel worries at his lips as Dean speaks.

“We met in some sleazy bar some sleazy older friends had invited me to—and he was older even than them—and he had these grey eyes, all dispassionate and removed but _charming—_ and at the time I thought it was so attractive—but it wasn’t, there was so much _cruelty_ in his eyes that I couldn’t see or recognise or understand at the time, or maybe I didn’t _want_ to say—because he was so charming, you know? I was so flattered that someone so much older than me could be so into me—and his eyes—those eyes that I would come to be so scared of—when I first looked into _your_ eyes—” Dean looks up at Castiel, now, “When I _look_ into your eyes,” He corrects himself, “I see so much passion and focus and patience and kindness, and…” He sighs gently. “And I thought you were so beautiful, Castiel. Like winter. Not unforgiving, but frosty and stormy and glacial and tender and soft like the grass under snow. I don’t know if I’m making any sense—”

Castiel realises how worried his expression must be as he listens to Dean speak.

“But you were so perfect. Like an antidote. Everything I felt I needed—and you were—”

“Dean, you don’t need me—”

“But I _do,_ Cas—” Dean shakes his head. “Not like that, but I mean—” He sighs. “Meeting you was such a good thing. It was so good for me. It was like cold air in your lungs after spending too long indoors, after forgetting what the outside tastes like.”

Castiel snorts. He doesn’t know what to say.

“And you started off so different to Alastair. You never pretended to be obsessed with me like he did—you never flattered me like that, so I was never fooled by anything—”

“Dean—”

“I get what this sounds like, Cas, but the only way I feel like I can talk about him is by comparing him to you—I’m sorry—it just—I don’t know, it makes me feel safer… You’re so different to him, and it reminds me that he’s _gone—”_ Dean cuts himself off and closes his eyes. “God, I was stupid.” He says, for what feels like the millionth time to Castiel. “I used to be so different to the way I am now… Confident, like, with everyone. And now all of that shit—” Dean waves his hand vaguely. “—It terrifies me. You can tell, I know. But before we were even _official,_ things started getting worse and worse with Alastair—and then I thought that when we finally _were_ official _,_ he’d treat me kinder, but…” He sighs. “Fuck, I was wrong. And _fuck,_ Cas, can you believe that I really _loved_ him?! Or thought I did?! Fuck, I hate myself for it—for what I put my family through—”

“What _you_ went through, Dean—what _he_ put you through.” Castiel corrects.

Dean glances down.

“I don’t like who I was, then.”

“I think you’re looking at this wrong.”

“No offense, but it’s not really up to you to tell me how to look at this shit.”

“True, but—”

“And there’s no _nice_ way of looking at it, you know, Cas? I can’t put a flowery spin on it, it would be fucked up if I could, and _nobody_ can. Nobody has the _right_ to.” Dean looks as if he’s going to cry again. “It was the shittiest time of my life. I’m glad it’s over. That’s all I can say. The nightmares and PT—” He stops abruptly, looking away, mortified. “It’s a small price to pay.” He decides. Castiel sighs and presses his forehead back up against Dean’s.

“It means the world to me that you feel you can speak to me about this. Even if it’s hard.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards, shyly, slightly comforted.

“Thank you…” He says quietly. Castiel bumps his nose against Dean’s. “I meant what I said, by the way.”

“About what?” Castiel asks.

“That I need you. I know it sounds like bullshit, and I know you hate that crap—but—I’m so, _so_ glad I met you. And I need you. I need you.”

Maybe it’s the closest either of them will get to saying that they love each other. Maybe it’s enough.

“I need you, too.” Castiel replies gently.

In Dean’s eyes he can see the first day of spring.

 

…

 

“Are you gonna come tonight?” Castiel asks, nudging the side of Dean’s face as the human reads something about the History of Art. Both of them lie on their fronts on the floor of Dean’s room, Castiel watching Dean work, adoring the way the human will occasionally mouth the words he reads on the page.

“I don’t think so.” Dean shakes his head. “I’ve got a lot of work to do—and it’s all to do with engineering, and I’m shit at that—”

“You’re good at fixing cars.” Castiel frowns in protest. “You’ve told me that much before.”

“That’s not the engineering I’m talking about,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m good at _that_ stuff, ‘cause it’s so hands on. That’s how I work. This stuff is all theoretical and boring and I don’t get _any_ of it, but—”

“I’ll help you with it.” Castiel shrugs. “Come out tonight.”

“Cas, no offence, but I’d be better off asking Ezekiel.”

Castiel pouts and rolls over, staring up at the ceiling and letting out a deliberately childish moan.

“Don’t be a kid.” Dean smirks. “Fuck, you’re so needy.”

Castiel glares at Dean and refuses to speak.

“Silent treatment, huh?” The human raises his eyebrows, looking very much entertained. “You think that’s gonna work on me?”

Castiel blinks once.

“Well, you’re sorely mistaken.” Dean grins, shaking his head. “I could use the peace and quiet to get along with my work, so—”

“ _Fine_ ,” Castiel grumbles. “But I’m going to have a shit time without you.”

“I’m sure.” Dean winks. “I’m the life of the party.”

“You are to me.” Castiel pouts.

“That’s gotta be the nicest thing you’ve ever—”

Castiel breaks, laughing, and elbows Dean softly before he can continue.

“Don’t even try that, Dean.” He shakes his head. “I say a _lot_ of nice things to you.”

“Alright,” Dean concedes. “Maybe a few.”

“And they’re all true.” Castiel beams, rolling back over and lifting himself up to press a kiss onto Dean’s temple.

“There you go again.” Dean rolls his eyes and shakes his head in mock exasperation.

“There I go again.” Castiel hums. He presses another kiss to Dean’s face. “You’re wonderful.” He beams against the human’s skin.

“And you’re alright, too, I guess.” Dean replies, elbowing Castiel. The angel wraps his arms and wings tightly around the human. “A bit of a sap, though.” Dean wrinkles his nose.

“And unashamed.” Castiel chuckles, nosing at Dean’s neck.

“Fairly funny, too.” Dean shrugs. “Well, funnier than I thought you were.” He amends.

Castiel squeezes Dean tighter in playful reprimand. The human laughs and rolls over to kiss Castiel properly.

 

…

 

Castiel arrives, already bored half to death. Dean isn’t coming. He feels bitter about this, and stressed about exams, and tired from working. He doesn’t care, now; he wants to get _fucked_ and forget about all the above.

“Castiel,” Someone greets, hugging him in greeting. The angel bristles. “You alright?”

“Stressed.” Castiel shrugs. “I can’t be fucked with any of this shit, any more.”

“I feel you, man.” The person laughs. Castiel wonders where he knows them from. “I don’t want to finish this semester, let alone go into the _real_ world—”

“Have you got any Molly?” Castiel asks, interrupting. He doesn’t want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to become more stressed, doesn’t want to bother socialising with people when the only person he wants to spend time with— _Dean—_ is nowhere around.

“No, sorry, man.” The angel shakes his head. “Why—are you dropping tonight?”

“Yeah,” Castiel nods. “I want to forget everything.” He laughs.

“I can call—”

“I’ve got enough,” Castiel shrugs, “I just… I don’t know.”

“How much?”

“About a gram.”

The angel snorts.

“That sounds like plenty, Castiel. You really gonna take all that? You could _die.”_

“I’m not taking all of it,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “And anyway, I’ve built up a tolerance. So it’s fine.”

“I don’t know,” The boy rubs the back of his neck and looks uneasy. “You know what you’re doing?”

Castiel laughs and shrugs again. “Does anyone?”

The angel still looks uncomfortable.

“Look, I’ll take point five—maximum. Does that sound better?”

“Point five is still a lot—”

“You’re worse than Dean.” Castiel finds himself rolling his eyes. “I’m going to be candyflipping tonight. Keep an eye out for me?”

“Sure.” The angel nods. Castiel spots Balthazar and approaches him. The angel is deep in conversation with Ruby, but looks up when Castiel draws near.

“Castiel,” He smiles, pulling the other angel in for a tight hug. Castiel returns it awkwardly. “How are you?”

Something about Balthazar’s manners has always made Castiel uncomfortable, but the angel makes for good company and knows Castiel well enough not to nag him when Castiel explains what drugs he plans to take each night, which is why Castiel goes to him to find out if he can get his hands on anything else.

“Everyone upstairs is smoking,” Balthazar shrugs coolly, “I might drop later, but we’ll see. And somebody said something about shrooms, so if you ask around—”

Castiel decides to pursue this. Within thirty minutes he has found a human with short ruddy-brown hair and a plastic food container in his bag filled with mushrooms.

“Are these any good?” Castiel asks as the boy gives him a handful.

“My brother grew them,” He shrugs, “so I guess? _He_ says they’re good. But he would. We’re about to play Chicago—wanna join in?”

“Sure,” Castiel nods, sitting down. “Last time I played this, I nearly choked to death.”

“That’s the thrill of it.” A girl opposite Castiel grins. He piles the mushrooms into his mouth as they roll, grimacing and downing the liquid the girl passes over to him to wash them down.

“The fuck is that?” He grimaces at the taste of the liquid, now.

“I mixed it myself.” The girl shrugs. “It’s got some home-brewed stuff in there, you know—”—Castiel begins to wonder if this group is too intense, even for him—“I made it for its intended effects, not for taste, what can I say?”

Half an hour later, and Castiel’s head hurts from holding his breath too long, and smoking too much. He bombs the MDMA, wrapping it in cigarette paper he borrows off the boy with red hair. At first he only takes half—but his vision is growing blurry and he decides, after another thirty minutes, that as he hasn’t come up yet he should take the other half, along with all his acid.

Someone approaches him as he sits on the floor, frowning and gaping at his surroundings, wishing somebody else were here with him, someone specific and precious—but he can’t remember who,

“Castiel, did you hear about the Mandy?”

“What?” Castiel frowns up at the blurred figure. They shimmer in odd red and green and blue lines.

“Half of it was meth, apparently. Did you know? Have you taken any?”

Castiel swallows hard and nearly chokes. He shakes his head. The walls seem to be closing in on him. It feels as though he is sitting on a thin pillar a thousand feet off the ground and he can’t stop moving because he can’t get comfortable but he is terrified because it feels as though he is about to plummet to his death. He puts his head between his knees and groans.

“How much did you take?” The figure asks. Castiel groans again and shrugs.

“I had one gram on me—”

 _“Shit,_ seriously? Well, fuck, man,” The voice sounds troubled. Castiel begins to shiver. “…I gotta go.”

Castiel thinks he’s going to be sick.

The next few hours are a blur and he finds himself stumbling through the hallway with ominous, dark shadows of creatures attempting to chase him and touch him.

_“Dude, are you okay?”_

He pushes one away, gasping, and stumbles into a room as his lungs feel too tight to breathe. They all speak in incoherent sentences, in a language he doesn’t understand. Their words garble and are too loud and ugly and what are these _monsters_ doing outside this room?! They peer in and stare at Castiel with wide blank eyes and he shudders and crawls onto the bed and groans and cries and one of them tries to enter the room and he screams until he vomits on the floor and hears the monsters exit and lock the door behind them.

Castiel lies, shivering on a bed that he knows isn’t his. He doesn’t remember where he is, how he got here. His throat feels tight—like some clawed hand has taken a tight grip on it and squeezes at irregular and painful intervals, and he dares not look down, for fear of what will meet his gaze if he does—what small, terrible creature is clawing at his body and making swallowing painful. He stares at the walls ahead of him, oozing blood, and shudders, convulses where he lies. He’s going to be sick. He already _has_ been sick. He shivers and glances down at his hands and see them thick with hot blood—they grow hotter and hotter with it until they feel as though they are about to blister and Castiel tries to wipe them clean desperately but it is to no avail, he grows panicked again, terrified, and the walls start oozing the same blood that’s on his hands. The creature at his throat squeezes again and Castiel moans out in a mixture of pain and fear. The blood on the walls has started pooling thickly at the floor and is threatening to creep closer and closer to the bed which Castiel is lying on. The angel shudders and shuffles back on the bed, pressing himself up against the wall behind him, before feeling a sickening heart-beat of a moment where his stomach drops into his gut, and he turns quickly to face the wall he had just been leaning on, bile rising in his throat as he watches more maroon blood trickle down its surface. He pulls back quickly, another cry escaping his throat, and glances down to his hands, to check the blood on them.

The blood has disappeared. Perhaps he _did_ succeed in wiping it off. But Castiel’s heart still drops into the pit of his torso, because his hands are shrivelling and aging in front of his very eyes—they turn grey and withered as the angel stares in horror at them—he turns them over to look in terror at his palms, which desiccate and contort as parasites crawl out of his skin—Castiel lets out another cry and staggers back, knocking something over and falling on the floor—a stabbing pain shoots up his palm and forearm and he glances back at his left hand to see a shard of shining diamond sticking out of it, quivering blood oozing out of the wound and bubbling as it winds its way along Castiel’s forearm. Castiel staggers back again, because now the blood on the walls has turned an ominous shade of green, and the angel can see coils of worms working their way through the wood of the dresser beside him.

He hears voices outside the room and shudders away from them, attempting to make his way back to the safety of the bed and smearing deep, dark blood on the floor and everything he touches as he does so—all of the voices sound portentous and threatening and Castiel is reminded again of the creature at his throat—perhaps more of them are waiting for him outside—when he hears the warm gravel of a far more familiar voice—it sounds panicked and concerned, which causes Castiel’s heart to thump faster, more frantically against the cage of his chest, his mind pounding in his skull as the blood on the floor crawls ever closer towards him, the worms working their way out of the wood of the dresser and onto the carpet.

“What happened?” The warm gravel sounds upset and worried and Castiel’s heart is rising into his all too tight throat; and the angel is certain that any second now he is going to vomit the organ out of his body entirely. His lungs are tightening and shrivelling inside of his chest, squeezing all the air out of his system, and he gasps for oxygen, reaching his hand to his throat to tear the creature at his neck off of him, but it isn’t there, and this rises untold amounts of panic in Castiel’s system—because if it isn’t there, then where has it gone? And why can’t he touch it, if it can touch _him_?! He claws at his throat, attempting to reach the creature, but this makes his neck feel as though it has been ripped into ribbons the pressure is agony for his hand, still bleeding fiercely, crystal still poking out of it, and he groans in a horrible mixture of pain and terror.

“Bad trip.” One of the creatures replies. “We don’t—” The monster outside sounds anxious, too—but what kind of terrible thing could make even these creatures nervous? Castiel dreads to think—he’s trapped in a nightmare and he wants his warm gravel and forest-eyes and wingless-back to come and squeeze him tight and promise away the pain. Needles of tears press at Castiel’s eyes. “We don’t  know how much he took, but—”

“Too much.” One of the creatures finishes off for the other. Their words buzz in Castiel’s ears behind the wood of the door. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, there will never be enough air in the world again and Castiel is dying in anguish, he is sure of it. “Way too much—he just _turned_ —and we can’t call for help, ‘cause everything he took is illegal—”

“And what, you’ll get into trouble, too?” Forest-eyes’ voice bites with angry venom, now, and Castiel frowns at the sound, his blood rushing its way a little faster around his body, scorching his skin. “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you—”

“Listen, man, it’s not our fault—”

“None of you are helping him!” Forest-eyes shouts. “Why are none of you helping him?!”

“He won’t let us near him! He just shouts something about monsters and creatures at his throat and it’s fucking scary, dude!”

“What did he take?”

“Molly—like, a lot—too much—and acid, and—”

“You let him overdose on MDMA and gave him LSD?!”

“We didn’t give him anything! He brought it himself! It’s his fault—!”

“He just came in and started going on about ‘candy-flipping’—I didn’t—”

Forest-eyes mutters profanity and Castiel hears him shoving aside the creatures by the door, swinging it open with a sound that shatters into Castiel’s skull. He groans and presses his head between his knees—partially to block out the sound, but also because a shadow has crept out of the cupboard in the corner and is winding its way along the walls and closer-and-closer to the angel. Castiel hugs his knees to his chest as warm hand press at his face, attempting to tilt his chin upwards. They aren’t any of the creatures’ hands. Castiel recognises these hands. They’re forest-eyes’ hands; they’re warm-gravel’s hands, but opening his eyes is something that really scares Castiel right now. So he doesn’t.

“Cas,” The voice sounds as though it is masking concern. Castiel frowns at the tone. He doesn’t like being lied to, and the sound has anxiety coiling sharply in his gut, snapping at the chords of his already frantic heart. “Cas, can you hear me?”

Castiel nods in the darkness and grips tightly at the hand still resting upon his face—it squeezes back comfortingly and Castiel has to bite back the vomit rising in the back of his throat.

“Cas, are you okay?” The voice asks gently. “Can you look at me, please?”

Castiel shakes his head quickly. No. No to both. No to both of those questions and never again will he be okay, never again will he open his eyes. He spills all these truths from his lips and begins to rock back and forth, the pillar he was sitting on earlier has returned and now it sways uncontrollably.

“What’s wrong?” The voice asks. Castiel takes a shuddering breath.

“The monsters—” He trembles. He opens his eyes at last, but as long as he stares into the warm-green, he knows that he won’t be able to see the creatures winding their way around him. “—They’re—”

“You’ve had a bad trip, Castiel.” The voice says firmly but calmly. “None of this is really happening.”

Panic rises in Castiel’s lungs like water.

“—But if none of this is happening—then that means that you’re not really here—that you’re not real—”

“No, Cas.” The voice shakes his head slowly. “I’m real. I’m here.” Castiel’s breath, still faltering in his throat, evens out a little. The air feels too thick and heavy in his lungs. “The monsters aren’t real—”

“But I can _see_ them—” The angel protests, shaking his head and gesturing to the creatures crawling along the walls and the floors. The voice looks, but his expression remains calm and unperturbed, and Castiel frowns in confusion as he turns to face the angel again.

“It’s just the trip, Castiel. You took a little too much of everything—but it’s all going to be okay, I promise you.” His voice sounds calm and lilting like a lullaby, and is firm and soft in the angel’s ears. Castiel tilts his head back and stares, wide-eyed, at the ceiling.

“There are bodies on the ceiling.” Castiel shudders. “Babies’ bodies.”

Dean—Dean is his name, Castiel sighs to himself, Dean, Dean, _Dean_ —glances up at the ceiling, frowning at Castiel’s words, but shakes his head once.

“No,” He replies, surely. “There aren’t.”

Castiel feels a sicking mix of frustration and anxiety swirl into a storm in his gut.

“Then how to I know what _is_ real?!” His voice tears in his throat, and Dean—no, forest-eyes—no, _Dean_ , presses his hands softly to Castiel’s jaw, framing his cheekbones with his fingers, and strokes the ridges of Castiel’s face gently with his fingertips, holding Castiel steadily in place. The angel settles somewhat, despite himself—something about forest-eyes’ presence is soothing, strangely so, and Castiel swallows hard, the tightness around his throat depleting in strength and significance.

“This,” Dean says softly, squeezing Castiel’s face, “This is real. Me touching you is real.” He presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “You’re real.” He presses another to the tip of Castiel’s nose. “Me loving you—that’s real.” He presses Castiel’s hand to his heart and makes the angel feel the sound of his heartbeat, so much more slow and soothing than Castiel’s own trembling, frantic rate. “I’m real.” Castiel lets out a shuddering sigh of a breath. “The creatures you can see,” Dean moves both his hands to rest them on the angel’s shoulders, a grounding, warm touch, “they’re not real. And they can’t touch you.”

“Because you’re here to protect me.” Castiel replies. Dean sighs and rests his forehead on the angel’s, closing his eyes for a moment.

“They’re not real, Castiel.” He repeats, his voice tired.

“Yes.” Castiel nods. “Because you’re here.”

Dean sighs again and squeezes the angel’s shoulders as though Castiel is failing to grasp something very important.

“It’s not real?” Castiel asks quietly.

“Not real.” Dean confirms.

“Just a bad trip.” Castiel states, uncertainly.

“Just a bad trip.” Dean repeats.

Castiel glances at the walls again. Insects are crawling and writhing all over them, twitching their long antennae and clicking their pincered mouths open and shut. But Dean isn’t reacting to them. So they’re not real—they can’t be, and they’re only in Castiel’s mind. The angel repeats these words over and over in his head like a mantra, like a prayer.

“There aren’t really bugs on the walls.” He states, staring at them worriedly. Dean glances over to where Castiel is looking and shakes his head.

“No,” He confirms. “There aren’t.”

“And there aren’t shadows climbing out of the cupboard.”

Dean glances over to the cupboard and shakes his head again.

“None at all.”

Castiel trembles and presses his face into Dean’s shoulder. The younger boy accommodates him, winding his arms around Castiel’s back and shoulders and squeezing the angel’s body tightly against his own.

“Sing to me?” Castiel asks quietly against Dean’s skin. Dean’s hands falter a little, where they had previously been soothing gently at Castiel’s back, now they freeze a moment before continuing grazing their way over the angel’s skin.

“Sing what?” He replies gently. Castiel sighs as he feels Dean’s hands trail their way gently through his feathers.

“A lullaby.”

Dean snorts softly in Castiel’s hair. Blood is still oozing thickly off the walls, but it no longer terrifies Castiel as much as it merely unnerves him. It’s not real, he reminds himself. Only he and Dean and are real. Only him and Dean.

“What kind of lullaby?”

“Anything.” Castiel shakes his head. “Sing me Bob Dylan.” He decides, pressing his face into Dean’s lap instead of his chest. “Sing me that Bob Dylan song.”

“Don’t Think Twice?” Dean asks, carding his fingers softly through Castiel’s hair.

“Yes,” Castiel nods quickly. “That one. And then Billy Joel.”

Dean chuckles softly.

“What song?”

“Vienna.” The angel mumbles.

“Vienna.” Dean hums. “I know that one.”

“Or You’re My Home.” Castiel mumbles.

“You’ve got a lot of suggestions.” Dean chuckles gently. “Wait a moment, lemme grab a first aid box.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got a cut on your hand, but it’s not bad. Just let me patch it up.”

Castiel remembers the cut. The knowledge still sends his head reeling with nervousness.

“Hey,” Dean says gently. “It’s okay.”

Castiel feels the younger boy tilt him back onto the floor and slide a pillow beneath his head.

“You’re shivering a little.” Dean states quietly. “Are you alright?”

Castiel shrugs, trying to ignore the fact the furniture around him is melting. He feels Dean take his cut hand between his own and takes a short moment to assess the damage. Then one of Dean’s hands is removed from where it had previously been, wrapped around Castiel’s, and all the angel is given is a brief warning of;

“This might sting a bit, but it’s going to keep the cut clean and stop infection.”

And now his hand is stinging and burning as a cloth wetted with what feels like bleach is pressed to Castiel’s wound. The angel hisses and attempts to withdraw his hand, tugging it away harshly, but Dean maintains a tight grip on Castiel’s arm and fingers and stops the angel from being able to pull himself away. Castiel growls at Dean, glowering at him, but he is ignored entirely as Dean winds a strip of bandage around Castiel’s palm.

“You should just be happy that I know how to deal with this kind of wound.” Dean shakes his head, tying the bandage into a neat, tight knot, closing Castiel’s hand softly and bending down to press a kiss to the angel’s forehead. “And be glad that other than this, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay?”

“I still want to get you checked up, though. The asshats out there wouldn’t know the first thing about dealing with any kind of person in a bad way, and so I wanna take you to the hospital.”

“Why?” Castiel frowns, anxiety strumming sharply at the cords of his heart.

“Woah, Cas,” Dean soothes. “There’s no need to look so concerned. They’ll just wanna make sure you’re okay. Nothing more than that.”

“I won’t get in trouble?”

“You won’t get in any kind of trouble.” Dean’s voice remains firm and soft. “Now, Castiel, sleep. You’ve had a tough time of it, and you’re gonna be exhausted come morning. The least you can do is get a bit of a headstart on yourself.”

“Sing to me?” Castiel asks again. Dean smiles affectionately and nods.

“I’ll sing for you.” Dean beams. He begins to hum softly.

“Well I never had a place that I could call my very own.” He sings gently. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he tangles his fingers with Dean, finishing the next line with Dean.

“But that's all right, my love, 'cause you're my home.”

 

…

 

“I told Cas I loved him, last night.” Dean frowns, sitting on Castiel’s empty bed. Ezekiel sits opposite him eating Cheetos with chopsticks—because it stops his fingers getting dirty, apparently—and frowns at Dean questioningly. “When he was all fucked up.” Dean explains. “He needed something—I don’t know, that was my reasoning behind it—but he needed something tender and kind and reassuring—and what could be more reassuring than someone loving you? I don’t know.” He sighs, groaning. “That was my reasoning behind it… but I wasn’t thinking, and I _really_ hope he doesn’t remember—”

“ _Do_ you love him?” Ezekiel asks, drawing his legs up beneath him. Dean sighs and shrugs again.

“I don’t know,” He worries at his lip. “Yes? A lot? But _he_ doesn’t know that—”

“—Well, _now_ he does.”

“Now he does.” Dean agrees, groaning.

“And why is that a problem?” Ezekiel asks, frowning.

“Because—isn’t it obvious?” Dean asks incredulously. Ezekiel gives him a look that says he really doesn’t think so, and so Dean continues. “—Because Cas—I don’t know if _he_ loves _me—_ I still don’t know what we are, what he wants out of it—out of _us—_ he’s so shit at defining things, he hates it so much, and—”

“—Did he say it back?”

“Say what back?”

“Did he say that he loves you, too?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “He was too fucked to say _anything_ much, and I can’t tell if him not replying was because of _that,_ or because he _doesn’t_ love me—”

“I think you’re reading into this too much.” Ezekiel sniffs, matter-of-factly. “As per, by the way—but you’re _really_ overthinking things this time.”

“How so?” Dean frowns.

“The guy was fucked on what, _four_ drugs? Five?”

“Ecstasy, meth, LSD, magic mushrooms, pot—”

“There we go.” Ezekiel states. “He could’ve had a heart attack from the stimulants there, alone—let alone the fact that he took like _five tabs_ of acid, or whatever the hell it was—”

Dean draws his knees up and rests his chin on them.

“—And he’s not exactly going to remember much of _anything_ of last night—and even if he remembers you saying you loved him—what was the context of that, by the way?”

“He asked me what was real, and I wasn’t thinking, so I…” Dean sighs, closing his eyes. “I said me loving him was real. I wasn’t trying to… y’know. I wasn’t _looking_ for a response. But now in retrospect I’m terrified that he—”

“This is Cas, we’re talking about.” Ezekiel laughs. “Sure, it’s emotionally constipated Cas—but as far as I’m concerned, he _adores_ you. If, on the off-chance, he remembers you confessing your undying, feverish devotion and eternal love for him—”

 _“’Zeke,”_ Dean groans.

“—And he decides that it wasn’t just the drug cocktail he took fucking with his brain, but that you _actually_ said that, he’s gonna be fucking elated. Over the moon.”

“How do you know that?” Dean frowns. “It took Cas months to admit that he _liked_ me—what will it take for love? Can he ever love me? What am I to him? Is what I am, now, all I’ll _ever_ be to him?”

“You worry too much.” Ezekiel states. “None of us really know what we mean to _anyone—_ and sure, Cas is a fucking riddle beyond the rest—but you really shouldn’t worry, Dean. You did a good job in keeping Castiel alive, and that’s not even touching upon the fact that you managed to calm him down and comfort him where _everybody_ else had failed. You did great. That’s a good thing. Gold star. That sounded sarcastic and I actually really didn’t mean it to—I wanna say a huge thank you for looking after Castiel that way. It means a lot to me, really. Obviously.” Ezekiel speaks earnestly now. “I don’t know what would’ve happened if you hadn’t got there. I don’t _want_ to know. It doesn’t bear thinking about. But, my point, Dean, is that where some of his closest friends failed—Ruby, Balthazar… _Meg_ was there, for example, and was totally fucking useless—you succeeded in calming Cassie down. And he didn’t know who he was, his ego _died_ in those hours when he got so supremely fucked _—_ so pretty clearly, you’re pretty ingrained into his skull, whatever he wants to call his feelings for you—love or not. You’re obviously something pretty special.”

Dean looks down at his hands.

“I hope he’ll be alright.” He states quietly.

“I hope so, too.” Ezekiel replies.

“I was so scared.” Dean shakes his head. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“No?” Ezekiel frowns. “Then you did an even more remarkable job, considering.”

Dean’s lips twitch worriedly upwards. Ezekiel gets up and pulls him into a hug.

 

 


	18. Historiography

18.

 

“How are you doing?”

“Alright, I suppose.” Castiel shrugs. He rubs his forehead. The ghost of the pain his skull was in the night he overdosed still skates over his skin. “As well as I could be doing?”

He isn’t meaning to sound so detached.

“Right…”

Silence for a few a moments.

“So…” Dean worries at his lip. His awkwardness paired with Castiel’s frostiness is reminiscent of the first few months the pair knew each other.

“Sorry.” Castiel sighs. “For everything.”

They sit on the floor of Dean’s room.

“It’s fine—”

“It must have been _shit_ for you—”

“It’s fine—”

“And I want to say thank you for looking after me.” Castiel stares earnestly at Dean. He’s trying not to be too withdrawn, but something inside of him has recoiled after his overdose, and retreats inside of his chest, away from the vulnerability of daylight and feelings for Dean and into the comfortable banality of isolation.

“Cas,” Dean stares back at Castiel with pleading eyes. Castiel isn’t sure what he’s asking for.

“Yes?”

Dean sighs and looks away.

“You—” Dean cuts himself off. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”

Castiel shrugs again.

“I never said I was feeling _okay…”_

“So how _are_ you feeling?” Dean asks. Castiel is silent a moment. “If you don’t want to talk—”

“No,” Castiel’s hand moves instinctively to Dean’s wrist. “I just—” He forces out a laugh. “This has fucked with me a little, Dean, in total honestly…”

“Of course it has.” Dean frowns.

“And it’s not easy for me to just—” Castiel presses his lips together a moment. “—Can we forget it? Can we just forget that it ever happened?”

“Sure,” Dean says slowly. “—I mean—will it be that easy for you to just _forget?”_

Castiel grits his teeth.

“Maybe if we stopped talking about it.”

Dean looks down again. Castiel hates himself and looks away.

That night, Castiel lies awake staring at the ceiling. Sleep has become something ominous and filled with flashing, ugly images. This must be how Dean feels every night. Castiel begins grinding his teeth.

“Dean?” Castiel asks quietly. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah, Cas?” Comes Dean’s reply, his voice rough but awake.  Castiel worries at his lip and searches for Dean’s hand under the sheets.

“How do you stop seeing things? Before you go to sleep?”

Castiel watches Dean press his lips together in the moonlight of the room.

“I think of happy things, I guess…” He starts, voice a little louder than Castiel’s. Castiel glances over to Ezekiel’s motionless form opposite them. “Like, family? Increasingly, I’ll think about you—”

Castiel presses his face into the curve of Dean’s neck.

“You’re seeing things?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods against the human’s skin.

“That sucks… I’m sorry…”

Castiel sniffs and presses his lips together.

“I can hardly remember anything that happened, you know?” He frowns. “Only what I saw—none of which was real—and how I felt—which was terrified. So I can’t draw from that night for _any_ comfort or reassurance. And even now, I’m worrying—how do I know what’s real? How do I know if anything’s real? What if you start melting away? What if you turn to ash in my hands? What if the shadows come back, what if the blood comes back?”

Castiel cannot read Dean’s expression in response to this.

“You can’t remember anything I said to you?”

“Hardly,” Castiel shakes his head. “I can remember you coming in—I can remember you burning my hand—”

 _“Cleaning_ you hand, Cas, I was cleaning the cut on your hand—”

“—I can remember you singing—but… That’s it, really. What else happened?”

Dean shrugs.

“Just me trying to comfort you, I don’t know. I was doing my best.”

“I wish I could remember…”

“Maybe it’s for the best you can’t.”

“No, I mean, I can remember everything I don’t _want_ to remember. All the horrible things. But none of the nice things. None of the things you said to comfort me.”

“Well, I’m here now.” Dean points out. “I can comfort you now, if you’d like?”

“You mean so much to me, Dean.” Castiel sighs. The human’s lips twitch upwards in the moonlight. “I’m sorry I fucked up so badly—”

“It wasn’t a fuck up.” Dean shakes his head.

“Then what was it?” Castiel asks, frowning stubbornly.

“An accident.” Dean replies. “You weren’t doing anything malicious, you just… These things happen, you know?”

Castiel snorts incredulously.

“Okay, so maybe not to _everyone—”_

“Did I tell you any of what I saw?”

“Only some stuff…” Dean frowns. “About shadows, and bugs on the wall, and dead children—”

Castiel shudders.

“I wish I could live in a bubble where nothing bad happened.” He states, dryly. “I wish I could live there. Even if it meant never really _living_. I don’t care. I hate this—I hate what I’ve done—I wish there could be a button you could press in life where you choose never to hurt anyone, never to _touch_ anyone, and they can never hurt or touch _you,_ and you go inside this bubble you just sort of _are—_ maybe you’re sleeping, maybe you’re dreaming—”

“But it wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t start with that _bad helps us appreciate good_ bullshit, Dean.” Castiel snorts bitterly. “It’s crap—I hate it. I hate it now, more than ever. You should know how full of shit that life philosophy is, better than anybody—”

“You didn’t even let me finish my sentence, you know.”

“I could tell what you were going to say.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Okay, so obviously pain is shit, and we hate it, and all the imperfections in the world can make everything seem pointless and futile and too much to even bother with—but maybe those bad things in this world—maybe this _world—_ is just like a transition, like a road we travel down that might seem to stretch on forever, but there’s actually a whole universe beyond it that we don’t even know about. I like that thought—that it’s okay that we don’t understand everything—and I like the thought that this isn’t the way this world is always going to be. It’s not even like me believing in _heaven,_ it’s like… Maybe if we saw this life more as a womb, and we’re just souls growing inside of it until we’re ready to see what’s beyond—maybe that’s what all this stuff is? I don’t know.”

“Do you believe in God, Dean?” Castiel asks quietly. “Or gods, or in some higher power, or whatever—do you believe in it? In any of it? Do you find that you _can?_ ”

“I don’t know…” Dean replies, his voice soft. “I guess I kind of stopped after everything that happened to me… My mom always talked about heaven and she definitely believed in God, and when she died I didn’t _doubt_ it, but…? I don’t know. Maybe it hurt too much to think about, and that meant that it hurt too much to _question,_ if that makes sense. And then with Alastair and everything that happened with him I guess I just detached myself from believing in _anything_ and I don’t really know why that is and maybe I don’t want to know. So no, probably. I think it hurts too much to believe, it makes me feel too vulnerable. I don’t like that. It’s not even that I object on a scientific basis, or a psychological one, or a sociological one… I just… I don’t like putting my faith in _anything._ It’s dangerous. I want to be safe.” A pause. “Do you?”

Castiel sighs gently.

“I used to…” He mumbles. “My parents were… like your mother. Very devout. Not in a bad way. But I could never connect the way most did with religion. My methods of doing so—to feel close to them, I suppose—were always a little… unconventional.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dean asks in the darkened room.

“I guess,” Castiel starts, looking over to the still-sleeping form of Ezekiel for a moment before continuing, “that the reason I got so interested in drugs in the first place was because they made me feel so connected with a higher power.”

“Oh.”

“And I needed that higher power to be real.” Castiel confesses. “Just as your unbelief was a product of your emotional needs, my… I don’t even know if I can call it belief, or not,” He groans, “but I wanted to believe because I wanted to feel whole, the way my parents had seemed to, through _their_ spirituality—and I wanted to feel close to them, again. I wanted their guidance, they always seemed so certain of what to do and of what was right while I increasingly had— _have—_ no idea…” He realises his eyes have welled up with tears. “So, trying to fill that gap, I turned to religion, and the way that I turned to religion was through drugs—mainly hallucinogens—and at first everything was fine, was working out great, but then one time I took too much, and…” Castiel stops, deciding to stare at Dean’s ears and memorise their shape. “Of course, that was the moment where everything went wrong. It was like being pushed off a tightrope—I’d never even realised that I’d been walking one, it had felt so natural and _fine_ before—but once I was falling I saw how easy it had been to fall off and how impossible it would be to get back on. Not that I didn’t try, mind you. And thinking about my parents all those times I was fucked off my head on ketamine or PCP or LSD or whatever the hell it was—it all just translated into me thinking about _all_ the things to do with them. _All_ my memories of them.” Dean has gone very quiet and still as Castiel has been speaking. “Which… Is not ideal, in retrospect.”

Dean breathes gently in the darkness.

“—Which makes it sound like they were abusive, or something horrible—” Castiel amends quickly. “—Which they weren’t. They were… I was very happy, those years of my life. But I—”

“I get it.” Dean shakes his head. He squeezes Castiel’s hand.

“That’s why I always see blood, I think.” Castiel states quietly. Dean doesn’t reply. Castiel slips his arms around the human’s waist and presses his face into Dean’s neck.

“I miss it.” He mumbles.

“Miss what?” Dean asks quietly.

“The comfort of knowing there’s something big and incomprehensible and made entirely of love out there looking after everyone.” Castiel sighs. “I miss that. I need it. I never realised I did.”

“It’s never too late to reconnect.” Dean points out.

“I think it might be for me.” Castiel states defeatedly.

 

…

 

“What’re you reading?”

“Nothing much.”

Castiel closes his book and turns to Dean.

“Do you want to do anything tonight?”

“Not particularly.” Castiel shakes his head.

“Is that a _nothing at all_ not particularly? Or a _nothing too big_ not particularly?”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

“I’m not even sure.” He confesses.

“Do you want me to get out of your hair?”

“No.” Castiel replies honestly. “Not at all.”

“Okay.” Dean pulls out a chair and sits down opposite Castiel.

The library is fairly abandoned, yet Castiel still feels uncomfortable speaking in it.

“Is it alright for me to tell you that I think you’re not doing okay?” Dean asks, folding his arms and leaning towards Castiel, as though sensing his discomfort.

“It’s not—” Castiel mumbles, “… _unreasonable_ of you, I suppose…”

“But?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the angel and rests his chin on his crossed arms.

“But,” Castiel sighs, looking away from the human, his face lining with worry, “I don’t know. I hate that you had to look after me, that night. I hate that I fucked up that badly—especially when I—” He exhales heavily, at a loss, “—when I’m supposed to be the thing in your life that _doesn’t_ fuck up—”

“Woah, Cas, _supposed?”_ Dean repeats, expression turning incredulous. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Castiel shrugs, more despondent than ever.

“I don’t know,” He says again. “I wanted—I always wanted—to be a constant in your life… You know? Like something that didn’t let you down, and I just feel as though I did—”

“Well, you didn’t.” Dean frowns. “Not at all. _Let me down—_ what do you even mean by that?”

“I scared you.” Castiel’s face lines further with worry, his tone turns indignant. “I never wanted to do that.”

“Obviously, but—”

“And looking after people is my _thing,_ Dean, I have to do it—I can’t have somebody else look after _me—”_

“And why not?” Dean frowns. “You think you’re too good for that?”

“No, not at all—” Castiel shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that—it’s just—come on, Dean, you _know_ me—I have to be looking out for the people that matter to me. It’s what I’ve always done—with Rachel, and now—”

“With me?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.

“Well…” Castiel looks down, embarrassed.

“Fuck, you can be so fucking patronising…” Dean looks away, snorting in disbelief.

“I’m not meaning to be—it’s not about that—it’s like, I don’t know, it’s my _responsibility_ to look after people—and it’s not that I think that I’m too _good_ to be looked after—it’s just that I don’t _want_ to be looked after. Does that make sense?” Castiel asks. Dean shakes his head, jaw clenched. “—It’s like—” Castiel sighs, lost for words. “—I don’t know, if I’m not looking out for someone, I’m doing something wrong. It’s my duty to look out for the people in my life, it’s what I was meant to do—that’s how I see it. So when I’m not doing that, I’m doing something bad—and when somebody else is looking after _me,_ I’m doing something really _really_ bad. It sounds fucked up, but maybe if I rationalise it a bit more for you? Like, Ezekiel’s thing is making everyone laugh, right? Making everyone happy? Gabriel’s thing is pissing everyone off, your roommate, Benny, his thing is about looking _out_ for everyone. My thing is looking _after_ everyone.”

“And that’s why you feel so shit about Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“Bullshit.” Dean snorts looking away. “I’m not saying I don’t believe you—but I just think it’s fucked up that you’re more bothered by the fact that I had to look after you that night than you are about the fact that you nearly _died—”_

“I don’t exactly get a say in what things I’m most affected by.” Castiel frowns at Dean. “And since when did you have a say in what I _ought_ to care most about?”

“Cas, we’re dating.” Dean glares back at Castiel.

“Oh, fuck this—I knew Friday would fuck up our relationship—”

“It’s not fucking up anything, Cas!” Dean leans forward at the table they sit at and speaks in a barely concealed whisper. “You’re just refusing to talk about it—and every time you do, something incredibly offensive or conceited comes out of your mouth!”

“That’s not true, Dean!” Castiel replies, voice the same hoarse-whisper as Dean’s. “And you know it! And I’m allowed to not talk about it, if I want!”

Dean’s expression is surprisingly unreadable.

“You know, Cas, for all that you encourage me to talk to _you—”_

“But I don’t _force_ you.” Castiel replies quickly. “So don’t try to manipulate—”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you!” Dean whispers furiously.

“Well, whatever you’re trying to do—”

“Get you to express your feelings in a _healthy—”_

“—There’s nothing healthy about me being forced into discussing things—”

“Then what about that shit where you implied me being vulnerable was _weak—”_

“I never said weak!” Castiel whispers furiously back at Dean. “I just said that it made me uncomfortable. And it does! I thought you wanted me to be honest?”

“But what’s wrong with being vulnerable around me? If you can’t be honest—”

“There’s a difference between being honest and being weak—”

“So you _do_ think it’s being weak?!” Dean spits back at Castiel. The angel’s face reddens and he looks away. _“Fuck_ you, Castiel—”—Castiel winces at Dean using his full name—“Fuck you for ever making me _trust_ you—”

“It’s really not like that—I didn’t mean it like that—” Castiel reaches out for Dean’s hands and holds them as tightly as he can. Dean looks away. “—Listen—it’s just—” He glances about the library. A girl sits listening to music through headphones, the sound so loud that Castiel can hear its synthetic humming from where he sits across the room. A librarian is shelving books a way off, wheeling books about on a wooden trolley to be shelved appropriately. A girl about Dean’s age sits in the corner, head buried in a book as thick as a balled fist. He glances back at Dean. “—I— _obviously—_ I struggle with this kind of thing.”

“Obviously.” Dean snorts bitterly. He pulls his hands away.

“But I’ll try—because I know it’s hypocritical of me to want you to tell me everything you feel without shame and not do even a fraction of the same. So—” He worries at his lip. “Has Ezekiel told you much about me… overdosing in the past?”

“A little.” Dean shrugs. “Nothing that you haven’t already filled me in on, however vaguely.”

Castiel looks down.

“Then maybe I should tell you about my parents…”

“You don’t need to do that, Cas.” Dean softens. Castiel glances back up at the human. Suddenly he is looking at Castiel with all the affection in the world, all his earlier kindness and tenderness renewed, all that anger and resentment and offense forgotten. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I just—imagine how you would feel if someone _you_ feel a sense of duty to look after—let’s say Samuel, or Jo—if _they_ had to look after _you,_ after you’d fucked up, and you put them through all kinds of horror—that’s how I feel right now—just imagine that—”

Dean sighs.

“I don’t have to imagine.” He admits. Realisation dawns over both of them. “I don’t have to imagine.” He repeats. “I get it now. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” Castiel shakes his head quickly. “—I mean, I don’t know what my thing about looking after everyone _is,_ exactly—but I know it definitely isn’t healthy. I mean, look at right now—”

“Right now we’re talking things through.” Dean shrugs.

“I never meant to say that you’re weak,” Castiel continues, “—I don’t even think you’re _vulnerable_ , per se, just _hurt—”_ He isn’t quite sure what to say, and strongly suspects that he is digging himself his own grave. “—I’m really not good at _anything_ to do with relationships, if you hadn’t already noticed that—of course you have—”

“You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had.” Dean shrugs again.

“But that’s the problem,” Castiel sighs defeatedly, “you’ve had a shit experience and I’m constantly worrying that I’m _adding_ to it.”

“Can you believe me when I say that you’re not?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.

Castiel worries at his lip.

“I can try.”

Dean smiles gently.

“And can you at least tell me a little bit about how you feel?” He asks, voice soft. Castiel slumps and rests his chin on his forearms on the table.

“I guess…” He mumbles. “Just _guilty,_ I suppose. Is that normal?”

“Is anything normal?” Dean replies.

“That feels like a lazy response.” Castiel states, dissatisfied.

“Alright, then.” Dean sniffs, as though he’s preparing himself for a longwinded explanation of something. “The way I see it, half the time our feelings seem totally and entirely irrational, and we can hardly explain them adequately even if we want to; and the other half of the time our feelings are so big and passionate and confused that we get angry even at the _idea_ of having to put them into coherent, logical language. And that’s totally fine, I think—I mean, they’re _feelings,_ not math, not some philosophical discourse, not physics—we can hardly do them justice through language, and hardly untangle them all to discern what’s really going on inside our heads. So in that way, nothing _is_ ‘normal’, everything’s just messy and confused and I guess that’s okay, like art or writing that’s just sprawled across a page. It doesn’t need to be neat, it needs to be _out._ What matters is that it exists, not anything else.”

Castiel desperately wants to hold Dean’s hand again. Instead, he simply looks at him hopelessly.

“And on Friday, I guess everything in your head got all jumbled up, totally, and most of all it got mixed up with feelings, and out of all those feelings it was confusion and _fear_ that won through. So it’s no wonder that you’re not sure about how you feel, now. And it’s no wonder that you needed so much support—you were terrified, and there’s no shame in that—what happened was _scary._ But now you feel guilty about needing help, which means you feel guilty about having felt scared, which means you’re berating yourself for getting in that state in the first place, but you can’t stop thinking about how much you _like_ getting in that state, and how you should have been able to control yourself, and how it was somehow really wrong of you to need help, and need it from me. Right?”

“Right…” Castiel frowns. “How did you—”

“I’ve been there before.” Dean shrugs. “Different scenario. Same feelings. Same—outcome.” Castiel swallows as the human speaks. “But pretty much the exact same feelings and conflicts and… I just get it.” He presses his lips together. Castiel worries that he is about to tell Dean how much he loves him. He bites down on the feeling, thinking of how Dean _literally just said_ that feelings ought to be sprawled out into the open like messy writing on a page, but he bites down on the urge to tell Dean all that he feels and specifically all the overwhelming warmth and sunshine and devastating rain that he feels for the human. He settles for something just short.

“You’re everything.”

It comes out as more of a sigh than a statement. Dean’s expression turns soft again.

“I thought you said I was weak?”

“ _Dean,”_ Castiel moans, rubbing his face with his hands. He feels as though he has aged forty years in the past week. He glances down at the bandage on his hand. The cut was spliced across the entirety of his hand. Dean glances at it also and remorse grows quickly across his features.

“Sorry,” He shakes his head. “That was rude of me—”

“No, I—” Castiel interrupts. “— _I_ should be sorry. For everything. Really. I—” Seconds away from telling Dean he loves him, Castiel cuts himself short, yet again. Dean peers at him curiously. “—I’m sorry.” He repeats. “Really. Thank you for everything—for being so kind and patient and understanding—”

“Not as kind and patient and understanding as I should have been, though—” Dean shakes his head.

Castiel takes Dean’s hands in his own again, unable to reply and dismiss Dean’s comment and explain how perfect and brilliant and admirable he is.

“We’re pretty fucked up, aren’t we?” Dean asks.

“You said that the night we first kissed,” Castiel laughs, finding himself beaming. Dean grins and shakes his head.

“I’m amazed you can remember…”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget _anything_ about you, Dean.” Castiel replies honestly. Dean snorts.

“Really?” He asks incredulously.

“Really.” Castiel confirms. “Never ever.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Too bad.”

“God, you’re stubborn.”

“Would you have me any other way?”

Dean laughs softly and looks away.

“I guess not.” He mumbles. Then he looks back at the angel and sighs. “Don’t ever change.”

Dean’s expression is more earnest than Castiel has ever seen it. He doesn’t know how to reply.

All he can think of—all he can ever think of—is how his heart burns for Dean Winchester.

 

…

 

The door to Castiel and Ezekiel’s room swings dramatically open. Castiel glances up, expecting Ezekiel, and raises his eyebrows at Dean as he staggers into the room. His mild curiosity turns into bewilderment and concern at the sight of the human, split lipped, blood dripping onto his chin, a dark swelling around his right eye, nose bloodied and a cut on his cheek. Oddly, the world begins to pound and Castiel can hardly think.

“Dean!” Castiel exclaims, standing quickly. He stares, almost terrified—although he isn’t quite sure why—at Dean. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? What happened?”

Dean blinks hard and laughs at the torrent of questions from Castiel’s lips, raising his knuckles to brush them briefly across the angel’s cheek—but Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist and tugs to gape and Dean’s hand—knuckles bloodied and red and swollen, blood caught underneath his nails. His fear turns quickly into anger, and he wants to find out _who_ hurt Dean this way, and hurt them back.

“Dean,” Castiel frowns, squeezing Dean’s hand, worry filling his system. “What happened?” He repeats.

“A fight.” Dean shrugs carelessly, chuckling and sitting on the bed. “You have an ice-pack?” He asks with mild curiosity. “That’s what I came here for.”

“You’ve been beaten.” Castiel frowns heavily, kneeling in front of Dean and examining the wounds on the human’s face. He swallows thickly, feeling a little ill, but Dean chuckles rough and low again and stands, brushing Castiel’s hands carefully off of him. Castiel glares at the human, confused, still certain he is going to be sick, but Dean seems to take no notice.

“On the contrary, Cas,” Dean smirks softly, “I won.”

“You _won_?” Castiel raises his eyebrows as Dean grabs the first aid kit and rummages through it, making his way back to sit down on Castiel’s bed, again.

“That so hard to believe?” Dean laughs, glancing up at Castiel, amusement etched across his features. How can he be smiling at a time like this?!

“No,” Castiel frowns, shaking his head. Just when he is sure he finally understands Dean; the human goes off and does inexplicable things, acting in a way that Castiel for the life of him cannot comprehend—and Castiel finds another hundred riddles to solve under Dean’s skin. “Not at all.”

“Well then, I won.” Dean chortles. Frustration coils sharply in Castiel’s stomach, and he wants to snap at the human, reprimanding him for treating his injuries as such a joke. “You got the ice-pack or not?” He asks, glancing back up at Castiel from the open first aid box sat on his lap.

“Sorry,” Castiel shakes his head quickly, snapping himself out of his daze. “Yes.” He nods, opening the mini-freezer in their room and searching its contents frantically, before finding the ice pack.

“Thanks.” Dean smiles as Castiel hands it to him. He tugs off his shirt, wrapping it around the pack and sticking it straight onto his black eye.

“Is that your blood on your shirt?” Castiel asks. “Or your opponents?”

“Theirs, mostly.” Dean laughs.

“Jesus Christ.” Castiel sighs, sitting down next to the human. “Give me that.” He tuts, tugging the ice-pack out of a still-giggling Dean’s hands. He finds himself softening as he places it gently over Dean’s face. “Who were you fighting with, anyway?”

“Oh, a couple o’ people.” Dean shrugs, his expression turning lazy and smug at the attention Castiel is showing him.

“How many?” Castiel frowns. “And stop preening, Dean, now’s hardly the time to be looking so smug.”

“No?” The human raises his eyebrows, almost cocky.

“No.” Castiel’s jaw clenches. “How many?” He repeats, trying to sound firm but failing miserably considering how tenderly it is that he dresses all of Dean’s wounds.

“About three.” Dean snorts proudly.

“Three?!”

“What, Cas? I’m good in a fight!” Dean laughs. “Good with my hands – you should know that!”

“Now really isn’t the time for innuendos, Dean.” Castiel puts his face in his palms and rolls his eyes.

“Why not?” The human smirks.

“You could get into serious trouble for this.” Castiel states, astounded that Dean hasn’t realised this much.

“That’s kinda unlikely.” Dean shrugs. “They’d get into more trouble.”

“Because it was three against one?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows at Dean again.

“Yeah, and ‘cause I was acting in self-defence. And in the defence of someone else. So.”

“Who were you fighting?”

“You know that guy, Crowley?” Dean asks, pulling a Kleenex out of his pocket and pressing it to his still-bleeding nose. “Yeah, him and two of his guys.”

“Stop rubbing it, you’re going to make it worse.” Castiel reprimands, taking the tissue and pressing it softly to Dean’s nose.

“That’s what she said.” Dean grins. Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, wow, fuck off.” He replies. “I thought you were above that kind of humour.”

“Apparently not.” Dean replies.

“Apparently not.” Castiel repeats, sighing.

“Very few things are beneath me, you’ll discover.” Dean winks conspiratorially at Castiel. The angel looks away.

“I hate you.”

“Not true.” Dean shakes his head, grinning. “You think I’m the moon and stars.”

“What?” Castiel frowns.

“That’s what you said last night. Genuinely—I’m not just teasing you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were baked.”

“Baked?”

“Like a cake.” Dean giggles.

“You’re impossible.” Castiel sighs, rubbing his face exasperatedly.

“It’s been said.” Dean chuckles.

“You’re okay?” The angel asks, leaning forward to brush his fingers across Dean’s cheek. His eyes linger on the cut there for a moment.

“I’m fine.” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s in my nature to worry about you.” Castiel frowns.

“I’ve noticed.” Dean laughs softly again.

“I can’t help it.”

“Well, I’m not saying that I don’t find it cute when you do.” Dean’s lips twist into a gentle smile. “If I’d known you’d be so concerned a few months back, I woulda got myself beat up more often. All the time, maybe.” Dean snorts. “I would’ve dragged myself in here with a broken leg in an attempt to get this kind of attention.” Dean gestures to Castiel, who has begun to clean the cuts on his knuckles.

“It scares me how much you’d have done to gain my attention a few months ago.” Castiel rolls his eyes. Dean chuckles and leans forward to press a kiss to Castiel’s forehead.

“Yeah, me too. Luckily for me, I _have_ your attention now, so I don’t need to do anything stupid.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop you.” Castiel exhales. Dean’s lips are tugged upwards in amusement. “How did you get the cut on your cheek?” He frowns.

“Crowley wears a lot of rings.” Dean explains. Castiel frowns. “Don’t worry about it, Cas,” He chuckles. “I wear one, too.” He gestures to his mother’s ring, sat safely on his middle finger. “And unlike those asses, I can throw a punch for shit.”

“I see.” Castiel nods, pulling back the ice-pack to examine Dean’s eye. “How the fuck did you win against _three people?”_

“You have so little faith in me.”

“That’s certainly not true.” The angel frowns. “You were outnumbered three to one. Is it wrong that I’m surprised?”

“I’m actually pretty tough, Cas, believe it or not.”

“I believe it, I just—” Castiel sighs, unsure of what to say. “—Seriously Dean, you’re _so_ impossible.”

“Is impossible a good thing?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.” Castiel replies. Dean raises his eyebrows questioningly. “I worry about you.” Castiel frowns gently, shaking his head.

“I thought you’d’ve loved this—looking after me.”

“I don’t love the fact that you’re _hurt,_ Dean.”

“I’m fine.” Dean shrugs. “You worry too much.”

“I don’t worry enough, clearly.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Dean shakes his head. “And I forgot— _your_ kind of looking after people usually involves—”

“I don’t want to know what it usually involves, Dean.”

“You didn’t _know_ I was going to talk sex stuff.”

“Are you usually this cocky after getting in a fight?”

“After _winning_ one.” Dean corrects.

“Someone was keeping score?”

Dean snorts and pushes the angel lightly.

“I thought you liked me confident.”

“I like you whenever.” Castiel shrugs, lips twitching upwards. “Confident, shy—it all works for me.”

“You’re cute.”

“You’re patronising.”

“Taking a leaf out of your book.” Dean grins.

“Is your lip okay?” Castiel asks, cupping the side of Dean’s face and grazing his thumb beneath Dean’s swollen, cut lip.

“My lip’s fine.” Dean laughs. “ _I’m_ fine. I’ve told you.”

“You don’t need looking after, I see.” Castiel chuckles, pulling his hand back from Dean’s face. Dean reaches and grabs it before it has had the time to fall back down to the angel’s side and returns it to his cheek.

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ it.”

 

…

 

“So, then, Dean’s like _fuck you—_ and Crowley’s like, _what the fuck?!_ And Dean’s like, _fuck you!”_ Ezekiel shouts, standing on his bed and dramatically acting out the fight.

“Zeke, you weren’t even there—” Dean groans, rubbing his face from where he sits, next to Castiel. Castiel glances at the human, lips twitching upwards.

“Somebody _filmed_ it, Dean—and put a shirt on, you’re an animal.”

Dean rolls his eyes and grabs a hoodie of Castiel’s, zipping it up.

“Cas was checking me for any more bruises—”

“Oh, _sure_ he was.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes back at Dean. “Bet he did a real thorough job of it, too.” He wrinkles his nose. “Both of you. You’re like rabbits. It’s disgusting.”

“Somebody filmed it?” Castiel asks, changing the subject.

“It’s just so gross—do you ever fuck when I’m _in_ here? Sleeping?!—Wait, fuck that, I don’t wanna know—”

“Somebody _filmed_ it?” Castiel repeats, pressing his roommate. Ezekiel hardly seems to notice.

“Yeah.” Dean answers. “Quite a few people, actually.”

“Why?!” Castiel exclaims. “Why didn’t they help you out?”

“Not everyone’s a born fighter, Cas.” Dean shrugs, lips twitching upwards.

“Yeah, not like Dean over here.” Ezekiel grins. He has begun to bounce on the bed he stands on. Dean regards the angel opposite him with hardly masked affection.

“’Zeke, have you ever considered the possibility that you’ve got some kind of hyperactivity—”

“Then why didn’t they go and _get_ help?!” Castiel interrupts. “Fine, they can’t fight—why’d they have to _film_ it?! It was three against one—what the fuck is _wrong_ with people?”

“Dean was holding his own pretty well.” Ezekiel shrugs carelessly. “Anyway, it was one of the most historic moments of all time! Crowley getting the shit beaten out of him! _Somebody_ had to document it!”

“You’re missing the point—”

“Nope, you are.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “It was _epic._ You have to watch it, Cas! Who knew Dean had that in him?”

Dean looks as though he’s about to remark that this comment from Ezekiel was more than slightly patronising, but the angel continues.

“So anyway, Dean was like _I said fuck you!_ And then one of Crowley’s little cronies—I don’t know his name—he literally just fucking swung at Dean—like _no warning!_ What the hell! But Dean just totally dodges it—like he was anticipating it! It was so great. Wow. Like he literally _swerves_ it! It was like something outta The Matrix! And then the other one swings at Dean, but Dean just _takes him out,_ and then the guy’s on the floor, and the first guy takes the opportunity to punch Dean right in the fucking face, but Dean doesn’t even miss a beat! He just turns around and _slams_ his damn fist into the first guy’s stomach, and then like fucking roundhouses him, I don’t fucking know, so now first guy’s on the floor—but not for long—and second guy’s got back up! And Crowley runs at Dean, but Dean just grabs him and swings him into the second guy—and first guy’s back up, but Dean throws him against a wall and you can _fucking hear the noise his head makes against it!_ It’s so gross! So first guy’s out, like literally out cold now, and he just slides onto the ground and Crowley gets _real_ livid, and hits Dean hard on the back of the head—and it looks like it’s all over! Dean’s kneeling on the ground, totally dazed, and second guy knees him in the face, and it’s so heartbreaking! It’s so tense! Everybody is holding their breath like you wouldn’t believe!”

 _“But why is no one helping?!”_ Castiel somehow manages to shout his words through gritted teeth, but Ezekiel, again, takes no notice. Dean’s hand slides to rest gently on Castiel’s shoulder and strokes gently.

“So Dean’s totally dazed—and it looks like Crowley’s about to make the final blow—but Dean _headbutts_ second guy in the groin! Like in the fucking dick! So second guy’s down, doubled over in pain, and Dean elbows him _so hard_ onto the ground—like actually slams his elbow onto the side of this guy’s face, then stands and just straight up fucking punches Crowley. And blood just pours out of the guy’s nose. It’s so gross. And Crowley punches back, hitting Dean in the stomach, but Dean kicks—and goes straight for the dick again! So now there’s three guys on the floor, one of them out cold, one of them close to it, clutching his poor aching dick—”

“—Stop saying that—” Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“—And another one totally conscious, in agony and desperately grabbing his groin, too. That one’s Crowley, by the way. So Crowley tries to headbutt Dean the way Dean headbutted the second guy—but Dean sees it coming and just knees Crowley right in the fucking face, then kicks him backwards, then second guy jumps up and _rams_ Dean into the ground right when it looks like Dean’s about to stamp on Crowley’s fucking face—and so Dean and the second guy are grappling like that for a good minute, just one trying to pin the other. You’d have been so jealous, Cas,” Ezekiel grinned, “it totally looked like they were going to make out.”

“Fuck off.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Crowley’s clutching his head, not sure of what to do, first guy’s still out cold, everyone’s cheering Dean on, now—and Dean manages to pin the guy he’s wrestling with—but the guy manages to shoot another punch! So now Dean’s nose is bleeding, and he’s been stunned again, Crowley grabs him from behind and holds back his arms and Dean is struggling and struggling but he can’t free himself! And he probably can’t see for blood—right?” Ezekiel checks this detail with Dean.

“Right.” The human nods, still smiling affectionately at Ezekiel.

“—Right.” Ezekiel repeats. “And the second guy gets up and kicks Dean in the stomach, and Dean is gasping and it looks like it’s all over! And our hero fought so valiantly and could this possibly be the end?!”

Castiel sighs at Ezekiel’s overdramatic nature. Dean seems to find it awfully amusing.

“And the second guy looks as if he’s about to land the final blow—to punch Dean right across the face and knock him right out cold—but Dean swings his legs up and kicks the guy in the groin _again!”_ Ezekiel seems to find this part very amusing. “Like, fuck, Dean really doesn’t fight fair.”

“Neither did they.” Dean frowns indignantly.

“And this bit—this bit would be where the epic music would come in, if it were Lord of the Rings—the guy’s doubled over again, his poor dick can’t seem to catch a break—in more ways than one, he was really butt fucking ugly, but that’s not really relevant—and Dean seizes the day just like Dead Poet’s Society taught us how, and kicks again, hitting the guy square in the face. And then again! In the face!”

“I’m not sure that’s _quite_ what Dead Poet’s Society—”

“—Second guy is stunned, Dean kicks him one more time and he falls backwards, Dean twists _so hard_ and _so fast_ and Crowley ends up slammed on the fucking ground, and punches Dean again, but Dean hits back and then gets up and stamps on Crowley’s chest and then picks him up just to punch him one more time, and _bam,_ Crowley’s out cold, too. Second guy raises his hands in defeat, but first guy has come back around! And he gets up and staggers towards poor breathless Dean, who thought that it was _finally_ all over, and he clubs Dean on the back of the head! And Dean is face-down on the floor now, poor guy, and first guy looks all victorious, and is about to stamp on Dean, but Dean rolls over just in time, and then he _grabs_ first guy’s foot and twists, and first guy’s on the floor, and he’s hit his head so hard on it that this time he’s out for _good—_ but Dean gets up and kicks him in the face just in case. Second guy still has his hands up, and Dean glares at him before going to check on—oh, so I totally forgot this part! They’d been beating up this poor little scrawny guy before Dean cut in! And this poor little dude—like, littler than Garth, Cas, I’m not fucking kidding—he’s been out of it the whole time. And Dean goes to help him out, he’s just coming round—but second guy sees his chance and _lunges_ at Dean! But Dean anticipates it! Like a fucking magic man!”

“I saw his shadow.” Dean corrects.

“Whatever,” Ezekiel shakes his head, “Dean just spins on the floor and trips the guy up and then throws him against the wall, and he staggers back and he’s got a real nasty cut on his forehead, but _finally_ he gives up. And Dean picks up the poor little guy and the crowd just fucking _part_ for him, like with Moses the Red fucking Sea, and Dean limps over to the little guy’s—girlfriend, I guess? And is like, _sorry, I’ve got to go—help him out, please?_ And just fucking _leaves,_ cool as you like! And everyone starts clapping.” Ezekiel sighs wistfully. “And _that,_ Castiel, is the story of how your all-too-awesome, could-do-way-better-than-you boyfriend saved some poor little dude’s life and officially became the coolest guy on campus.” Ezekiel sits down. “How do you respond?”

Castiel laughs softly and shrugs.

“He _is_ pretty amazing.”

“Isn’t he?! But aren’t you gonna tell me to fuck right off for say that Dean could do better than you?”

Castiel shrugs again.

“You’re not wrong. He’s quite wonderful, after all.”

“Dean, how do you respond?” Ezekiel asks, turning to the human.

“Honestly, ‘Zeke, there’s _no one_ better out there than Cas, as far as I’m concerned.”

Ezekiel wrinkles his nose.

“Oh, gross.”

“Probably not the answer you were looking for?”

“I was kind of hoping you’d take the opportunity to break up with Cas and tell him of your plans to elope with a male model who found you online and has been seducing you ever since.”

“Do male models typically elope with college students?”

“When they’re as awesome as _you_ are.” Ezekiel winks. “And think about it! It’d probably totally turn them on—you know, a young, inexperienced boy—”

Dean throws a pillow at Ezekiel’s head. He hits his target perfectly.

“You’re being gross.” Dean wrinkles his nose. “Stop it.”

“Sorry,” Ezekiel grins. “That was a _little bit—”_

“A little bit?”

“Maybe _quite_ inappropriate.”

“Maybe.” Dean rolls his eyes.

“It just feels like so long since I was last able to catch up with you guys! What’s been happening? Is your relationship still going well?”

“Things are fine.”

“Ooh, only fine? _Drama._ ”

“Shut up.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Are you gonna stay over with Dean over the summer?” Ezekiel asks.

“I think so,” Castiel glances at Dean, unsure of why he feels suddenly worried. “I mean—if it’s okay with him?”

“Of course it’s okay, Cas.” Dean laughs, hand grazing against Castiel’s. “I’d love to see you.”

“Great,” Castiel beams, only able to hold Dean’s gaze for a flickering moment, before looking down, suddenly embarrassed. Ezekiel snorts opposite them, and Castiel quickly forgets his embarrassment, head snapping up to glare at his roommate.

“You guys…” Ezekiel grins wistfully.

“What?”

“You know, I totally called it when I said that Dean was your type.” The angel lies back on his bed. “I _knew_ you’d adore him from the moment you met him, whether you admitted it or not.”

“Yes, and you went particularly out of your way to make sure that I felt like _shit—”_

“Hey, you brought it on yourself, Castiel.” Ezekiel shakes his head. “All it would’ve taken was you asking Dean out. And you didn’t.”

“I _did.”_

“No, you didn’t. Not for fucking months. Not until after you played truth or fucking dare or whatever the fuck it was that led to the two of you fucking making out—I don’t know. But it is _not_ my fault you went through so much pain watching Dean date other people. Not my fault at all.”

Castiel sighs bitterly, knowing the other angel is right.

“Well, whatever.” Dean shrugs. “We’re dating now.” He tangles his fingers softly with Castiel’s.

“Speaking of—Dean, are you gonna be staying the night?”

“Probably,” Dean frowns. “Why?”

“Because if that’s the case, I’ll give sleeping with you two a rain check.”

“You have somewhere else to stay?”

“Yes, believe it or not.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes.

“ _Who?”_

“Don’t say that like I’m some ugly duckling who—”

“I didn’t say it like that.” Castiel frowns indignantly.

“I know you two are gonna be even worse than usual.” Ezekiel grins, ignoring Castiel’s protests and side-stepping his earlier question. “That whole Wounded Soldier thing—Cas is gonna find it such a fucking turn on, I just _know_ it.”

Dean snorts, and before Castiel can snap back a response at his roommate, Ezekiel has left. Dean’s hand grazes against Castiel’s knee.

“What?” The human asks softly. “He was wrong?”

“No,” Castiel concedes, laughing softly. “—But _you_ find it hot, too.”

In the next second, a giggling Dean has dragged Castiel on top of him.

Okay, so maybe Ezekiel was right.

Maybe Ezekiel is right about a lot of things.


	19. Waving At You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of abuse up ahead (not in huge detail but I thought I'd just put a warning in here) - towards the end of the chapter.
> 
> The chapter following this one will probably the last one before the couple-of-month-long hiatus I plan this story to go on; please comment if you want to see any cute Dean/Castiel summer activities in particular! Needless to say, I also hope you enjoy this chapter.

19.

 

“I’m sick of studying.” Castiel groans, slumping onto the table he and Dean sit at. His head hurts, his eyes hurt, his mind feels like it’s _aching_ and yet _nothing_ is actually _going in_.

He’s going to die from stress. This is it, this is how it ends, this is the end of Castiel’s life.

“Too bad,” Dean shrugs. “You need to.”

Castiel looks up to wrinkle his nose at Dean. He watches as the human’s lips twitch only marginally upwards. Dean otherwise holds his amusement pretty well—Castiel says as much. The human seems unimpressed.

“Study.” Dean instructs, pointing Castiel to his textbook. Castiel groans and presses his head against the desk again.

“I’m sick of it.”

“You’ve said as much.” Dean shrugs. “And anyway, we all are.”

“I can’t concentrate any more.” Castiel moans, looking up again and rubbing his face in his hands, exhausted and infuriated by the state of _everything_ in the world.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Overdosing really fucked with my concentration.” He replies. “I can’t stare at a page any more. It’s impossible.”

“Well, lucky for you, studying doesn’t _actually_ involve just staring at a page.”

“Is that so?” Castiel asks sarcastically. Dean doesn’t rise to the bait.

“Yeah, it’s a little known fact.” He comments coolly, not looking up from his work. “Or so they _say,_ I don’t know if I buy into it personally—”

Castiel chuckles softly, despite himself, lips twitching slightly upwards into the gentlest of smiles.

Only Dean gets these smiles. Nobody else—not even Rachel.

“I still can’t work.” He states. “That’s not me exaggerating.”

Dean looks up from his book.

“You mean that?”

“Of course I do.” Castiel frowns softly at the human.

“About what you said about the overdosing, I mean? Has it really affected you that much?”

Castiel shrugs and looks away, focussing on his surroundings rather than Dean’s uneasy concern. He feels Dean’s gaze pressed onto his face all the while, his skin prickles under the sensation.

“I don’t know,” He laughs insincerely. “I guess? But this happens _every time,_ this time is no different—it’s only the _intensity_ that’s higher—”

“Cas—” Dean frowns, reaching across to take the angel’s hand in his own. Dean’s thumb runs along the ridges of Castiel’s knuckles softly. The angel continues to stare at anything other than Dean. “If it’s really that bad, you need to _tell someone—”_

“No,” The angel frowns, _“I_ was the one who fucked up. I don’t deserve special consideration—”

_“Cas,”_

Castiel has pulled his hand away.

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. He returns to his book and hears Dean sigh above him, but refuses to look up.

He feels like a dick.

Maybe he _is_ a dick.

“Cas,” Dean has pulled back, leaning away from Castiel as he speaks. The gesture presses a gentle, cold sorrow and remorse into Castiel’s heart. He looks back up to Dean and is met by pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel replies, having to look away once again. Guilt burns at his heart, worms its way through his skin. He wishes he could sleep for the next month. Year, even. “I’m sorry.” He repeats, looking back at Dean. “The last thing I need you worrying about is me—you’ve got enough on your plate. I’m fine—I’ll _be_ fine. I’ll sort it out. I’m sorry. I promise.”

Dean smiles weakly at Castiel. The angel does his best to return the look. He worries that his smile is even more unconvincing than Dean’s is.

 

…

 

“I can’t do it.” Castiel’s face is pressed into his pillow, now. “Don’t tell Dean—but I can’t do it.”

“Why shouldn’t I tell Dean?” Ezekiel asks, nonplussed. He sits opposite Castiel, legs crossed on his bed.

“Because he worries enough,” Castiel sighs, hitting his head against the pillow. “And the _last_ thing I want to do—”

“The way I see it,” Ezekiel shrugs, “is that he worries because he cares.”

“And he cares too much—I wish he didn’t care—I wish he didn’t care about _me—”_

“Well, that’s just fucking ridiculous.” Ezekiel snorts, putting on an infuriatingly silly voice.

“It’s true.” Castiel glares at his roommate.

“Why wouldn’t you want Dean to care about you?”

“I don’t deserve it.” Castiel rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, feeling awfully as though this were a guidance counselling session. Which would make Ezekiel his counsellor. _Fuck._ He doesn’t share the thought with Ezekiel—who would most likely enjoy the idea a little too much—and probably put on a ridiculous German accent as he attempted to analyse Castiel’s life. Even the thought has Castiel prickling with frustration. “I don’t deserve _him—”_

“It’s not about deserving people, Cas,” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “It’s not _ever_ about people deserving people.”

“That’s just not true,” Castiel frowns back. “Alastair _clearly_ didn’t deserve Dean—”

“You’re comparing yourself to _Alastair?”_ Ezekiel asks in disbelief. “Dean’s fucking abusive ex?”

“I’m not saying we’re the same—”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re not.” Ezekiel replies, matter-of-factly. “And don’t bring any of that up with Dean. It’d fuck him up, I just know it.”

“I never would!”

“Good!”

“You’re being useless at giving me advice!”

“I thought you just wanted to rant!” Ezekiel exclaims, mimicking Castiel’s tone frustratingly perfectly. “You never asked me for _advice!”_

Castiel groans and stares back up at the ceiling, eyes watering.

“I think I’m going to cry.” He admits, defeatedly. He feels Ezekiel’s gaze press at his face a moment, gauging his sincerity, before the angel slides off his bed and pulls Castiel into his arms, giving him an awkward, warm hug.

“You’re gonna be fine, Cassie.” He squeezes his roommate tight against him. Castiel squeezes back. “I’ll help you with whatever you need. I’ll quiz you, make flashcards with you, read to you, whatever. Whatever it takes. You’re gonna be fine. Brilliant—you know all your courses inside out—” Silent tears have started leaking onto Castiel’s face.

“I love you, ‘Zeke—”

Ezekiel starts to laugh.

“ _But you’re dating Dean!”_ He gasps, pulling away from Castiel. The angel rolls his eyes.

“’Zeke, you know—”

“I couldn’t—” Ezekiel presses the back of his hand, weakly, delicately, to his forehead, feigning a deeply conflicted expression. “—You’re to be _married—”_

“Ezekiel _fuck off—”_

“It’s so wrong,” Ezekiel shakes his head, voice high pitched and breathy. “But then—” He glances deliberately back to Castiel a moment. “It feels so _right—”_

“Ezekiel—” Castiel begins to laugh, pushing his roommate away from him. The angel reaches out to ruffle at Castiel’s hair affectionately.

“I’m flattered Cassie, but you’re not my type. Sorry, dude.”

“I’m devastated.” Castiel deadpans.

“I can only imagine.” His roommate smirks.

“Is there anything I could have done differently?” Castiel asks, feigning a heartbroken concern. “Anything I could have done? Could have said, to make you love me the way I love you?”

Ezekiel nearly beams with how far his smile reaches.

“Cassie, I love it when you play along!” He grins, nearly giggling. “It’s like watching a robot figure out what jokes are. Or when they dress up babies in grown up clothes.”

Castiel snorts and sits back down.

He picks up a book and begins to read.

Ezekiel sits opposite him again.

“I meant what I said about loving you, by the way.” Castiel smiles softly as he reads. “You’re like a brother.”

“And I thought we had something special.” Ezekiel sighs, shaking his head.

“Ezekiel—”

“Put in the brother-zone once _again!”_ Ezekiel exclaims, raising his voice with mock-exasperation.

“’ _Zeke—”_

“I didn’t even know robots could have brothers!”

“Ezekiel—”

“Are AIs capable of love?” Ezekiel frowns, staring earnestly at Castiel.

The angel smirks despite himself.

“You’re a dick, Ezekiel.”

“I love you too, Cassie.” The angel beams back at his roommate.

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards.

He returns to his work. He manages to focus on every page.

 

…

 

“This is going to be the shittiest week of my life.”

“Not true.” Dean shakes his head. “You’re gonna have to get a job when you graduate, and the first week of _that_ will be hell—”

“Don’t remind me.” Castiel groans. He stares up at the ceiling. “I can’t do it.”

“Stop complaining.” Ezekiel cuts in. “Yes you can.”

“I hate everything.”

“Well that’s simply not true.” Ezekiel replies, putting on another of his ridiculous voices. “You clearly _adore_ Dean—”

“I was exaggerating for dramatic effect, Ezekiel—”

“Dramatic effect, huh? I’ve never heard—”

“It’s _so_ nice to hear that you adore me,” Dean beams at Castiel. The angel wrinkles his nose and pushes the human lightly. Dean only laughs in response.

“You’re disgusting.” Castiel comments.

“And you really _are_ dramatic.”

“I think I’m going to die,” Castiel groans. “I can’t do it.”

“Yes you can.” Dean frowns back at the angel.

“You know what I hate? I hate that they only ever test _memory,_ not actual curiosity felt for the subject you’re being tested on or creativity or moral conviction or effort put in or—”

“You’ve never complained about it before, Cassie.” Ezekiel points out, barely hiding a smirk.

“No, it’s only now that I realise how unfair it is.” Castiel glares up at his roommate, wings bristling. Dean slides a calming hand through his feathers.

“Only after you decide you can’t concentrate on anything?”

“I haven’t _decided,_ you know this is an actual _thing_ that happens after you take too much—”

Ezekiel makes a loud farting noise with his mouth. Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You’ve never let it stop you before.”

“Well, this time wasn’t like the times before—”

“You’ll be _fine._ Just keep plodding on—”

“Ezekiel, the only drug you’ve ever done is _weed—”_

Ezekiel makes another farting noise.

“Prove yourself wrong.” He says shortly. “Prove that you can do it.”

Castiel sighs.

“I hate everything. It’s not fair.”

“Dean’s family is coming at the end of this week, aren’t they?” Ezekiel asks. Dean nods his head in confirmation.

“They’re taking me out for dinner and staying a couple of days with family friends who live pretty close.”

“Let that get you through the week, then, Castiel!” Ezekiel exclaims. “You get _another_ chance to impress them!”

Dean begins to laugh, but the wound on his lip from his fight with Crowley splits open once again and he hisses in pain, wincing.

“Shit,” He mutters, pressing his sleeve to the wound.

“Don’t do that, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “you’ll _stain_ it.”

“You’re so naggy,” Ezekiel giggles. “It’s like you’re married. Cassie, you act like Dean’s husband of five years—”

“Oh, fuck off.” Castiel bites back at his roommate, ears heating.

“I’m only calling it how it is.” Ezekiel shrugs, grinning.

“Hey, both of you,” Dean laughs, still pressing his shirt sleeve to his lip to stem the flow of blood. “Get back to studying.”

Castiel sighs pointedly but picks up some notes and begins to reread them, highlighting certain parts that seem particularly important. Dean’s hand returns to his wings.

 

…

 

“All you need to do is get through it.”

“It just seems so completely pointless that so much of my degree depends on how well I—”

“Yeah, I know, Cas—but remember that _I’ve_ got finals, too, and that you’re not _totally_ alone—”

Castiel sighs, rolling over and hugging Dean close to him.

“Sorry,” He mumbles into Dean’s neck. “I’ve been really annoying, recently.”

“You’ve been fine,” Dean shrugs, hugging Castiel back. “I get it. It’s cool.”

“I’ve decided that there’s no point to history.” Castiel sniffs, shaking his head. “There’s no future in it.”

Dean snorts.

“It didn’t go well, then?”

“It was terrible.” Castiel groans, shaking his head. “I hate it, now. Stupid fucking history. What’s the point of it, anyway?”

“I guess it’s to—”

Castiel groans into Dean’s skin once again.

“What about political philosophy?” Dean asks. “How did that go?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” Castiel sighs, turning over once again to stare up at the ceiling. “Everything is awful.”

“It’s not the end of the world.” Dean replies gently.

Castiel cannot think of a reply.

 

…

 

“Dean!”

This time, it is Sammy who manages to reach his brother first. Jo is close behind, and runs into her siblings at full speed, nearly knocking them over.

“Hey, guys.” Dean grins, shaking his head. His lip splits yet again, and he sighs, touching it lightly with his forefinger to assess the damage as Ellen and Bobby approach. A drop of crimson slides down the tip of his finger. Ellen seems about to tug him in for a close, bone-crushing hug, but she stops suddenly, frowning and taking hold of Dean’s wrist, examining the drop of blood on Dean’s hand before her gaze shifts up to Dean’s split lip.

“Dean?” She asks, still frowning and clearly troubled. “How did you get this?”

“Hello everyone,” Castiel smiles as he approaches Dean’s family, behind Dean. “I hope you’re all well?”

Ellen’s gaze flits over to Castiel. She continues to frown, something in her expression hardening.

“Yeah,” Jo beams, stepping out away from Dean to stand in front of Castiel. “I’ve decided that when I’m older I want to own a Giant Alaskan Malamute.”

“Oh,” Castiel nods, laughing nervously. “What is that?”

“It’s this _enormous_ dog. Like a really big husky. They look like wolves. They’re like ninety percent pure fluff.”

“Wow,” Castiel seems to be supressing a smirk. “…Why can’t you get one now?”

“Mom won’t let me.” Jo rolls her eyes, as though this is very unreasonable. “So I’ve said, once I’ve got a house of my own, I’m gonna keep all _kinds_ of dogs. And she can’t do anything to stop me.”

“Right,” Castiel still looks that combination between perplexed and amused.

“What’s this, Dean?” Ellen asks, fingers ghosting over his lip. Dean hisses and takes a step back. “What happened?” She asks. Sammy and Jo continue in plaguing Castiel with conversation. Ellen’s hand pulls Dean closer to her by his shoulder. She frowns distrustfully in Castiel’s direction, before her gaze flickers back to Dean to examine him further. “And what’s that?” She asks, pointing at the remains of the cut on Dean’s cheek, from where one of Crowley’s rings had hit Dean particularly hard.

“Oh,” Dean almost laughs, “right—”

“And is that a _black eye,_ Dean?!”

“Well, what’s left of it—”

Ellen drags Dean further away from Castiel, her eyes glittering.

“Bobby—”

Bobby takes a step forward.

“What’s the problem?” He asks. His hand has come to rest firmly on Dean’s other shoulder, threatening to drag Dean further still. Dean glares and stands his ground.

“There _is_ no problem—”

“How can you say that?!” Ellen asks, a hushed, angry whisper. Her eyes are welling up. Does she honestly think that—?

“How can he say what?” Bobby frowns.

“It _is_ nothing—”

“Dean has a black eye.” Ellen turns to face Bobby. His eyes widen, then turn dark. He glares at Castiel, and seems ready to lunge at the blissfully unaware angel, still caught in conversation with Dean’s younger siblings, but Dean grabs him by the arm and tugs him back.

“ _Bobby,”_ He hisses. “ _Cool it.”_

“Cool it?” Bobby repeats incredulously. “He—”

“ _Didn’t do fucking anything—”_ Dean replies, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s what you said last time, Dean—” Ellen reasons. She seems ready to cry. Dean’s heart softens, and he worries that _his_ eyes well up with the burn of tears, also.

“No, I mean it, mom,” He shakes his head. Ellen frowns, eyes still bright with tears, but softens—perhaps at Dean’s referring to her as his mother. “It wasn’t him. Cas would _never—”_ He nearly laughs, though he doesn’t know what at. Something swells and bursts inside his heart, thinking of how constantly tender the angel is with him. “—I got in a fight. With some ass, Crowley, and two of his cronies. It wasn’t—Cas was actually _beside himself_ when he saw me—he wouldn’t stop fussing—it was kind of funny, actually—”

“ _Funny?!”_

“You got in a fight with three other people?” Bobby frowns.

“Yeah—and I won.” Dean grins.

“Dean, this isn’t what—”

“No, I know—but that point is, Cas wouldn’t ever do _any_ of that stuff. Please believe me?”

Ellen sighs, but lets it drop—at least for the time being. Bobby, apparently satisfied, steps away to speak to Castiel, resuming his friendly manner.

They go to a burger place for dinner.

“We heard how much you like burgers,” Jo beams, sitting next to Castiel. “So I thought we should go here.”

“It was a good idea,” Castiel laughs. “Thank you very much.”

“That’s okay.” Jo beams. “It’s cool that you’re so nice, and that we get to meet you.”

Castiel chuckles nervously and thanks Jo, at this. Dean smirks and rolls his eyes when the angel glances over to him. Ellen sits next to Dean, and Sam sits on the other side of Jo, opposite Dean. Dean is totally isolated from Castiel, which, now that he thinks about it, was probably Ellen’s plan. Bobby sits on the other side of Ellen, directly opposite the angel.

“Are you gonna stay with us over summer, then?” Jo asks. Castiel’s lips twitch a little further upwards. He shifts in his seat nervously, wings bristling a little.

Ellen catches the conversation and takes this moment to turn to Dean.

“Dean are you absolutely _sure_ he didn’t _—”_

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Dean sighs.

“Because you know that you can _tell me—”_

“Yes, I know.” He reassures.

“It’s just that last time—” Ellen’s eyes threaten to tear up once again. Dean takes hold of her hand and squeezes it gently.

“I know what happened last time, Ellen.”

“And I wish I’d made it _easier_ for you to—”

“Ellen, none of what happened was your fault.” Dean reasons, frowning. She looks away.

“You’re happy with Castiel?” She asks quietly. Dean glances over to the angel, still caught in conversation with the rest of Dean’s family. He finds himself beaming.

“Yeah,” He nods, looking back at Ellen. “Really, like—I didn’t think…” He laughs and trails off, nervously. “He’s great, honestly. He’s so stubborn and grumpy, you have no idea. It’s so great. He’s so—” Dean has to look away, blushing furiously. “I don’t know.” He laughs, embarrassed. “Nobody’s ever been so gentle with me. Like—not like—he’ll just hold my hand like he thinks I’m made of glass. I really think I—”

Dean cuts himself off. Ellen’s smile is bittersweet.

“Tell me if anything—I’m not saying it _will,_ but Dean, I worry—”

“I get it.” Dean shrugs. “I’ll tell.”

“Thank you.”

Her eyes are soft.

“That’s fine.” Dean replies.

“You really like him, don’t you?”

Dean is quiet for a moment. His face prickles.

“Yeah.” He admits, laughing as he answers. “Yeah, I do.”

“And you feel safe?”

“Honestly, Ellen, I really do.”

“Good.” She nods. “I’m sorry, Dean, but it’s in my nature—”

“It’s okay, you’re only looking out for me.”

“And after last time—”

“You don’t need to feel that way.” Dean guesses what it is Ellen’s going to say, and interrupts her before she can get around to saying it. “I get it, but what happened was just… It wasn’t you, and I realise I’m only just starting to get used to the idea that it wasn’t _me…_ but…”

“How are your nightmares?”

Dean shrugs, pressing his lips together.

“I still get them.” He answers. Ellen looks crestfallen. “Cas makes them a lot better.” He admits.

“Does he?”

Ellen seems almost hopeful.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “The first time—he was so understanding, like, he didn’t ask me about it afterward, because I said I wouldn’t want to talk about it, and I’d been panicking loads and he just… Calmed me down, you know? Grounded me.”

“And you weren’t embarrassed?”

“Ellen, I was _mortified.”_

“But if you could stand to tell him—”

“I woke him up,” Dean shakes his head. “I wake him up every time.”

“And he doesn’t care?”

“He only ever seems worried about me.” Dean answers. “But I guess I worry that one day he’ll get sick of it, of me, and…”

“Don’t think about that.” Ellen shakes her head. “How did you manage to keep it a secret from Sammy, then, that you had nightmares?” She asks.

“Sam’s a heavy sleeper.” Dean shrugs. “And he doesn’t share a bed with me. And the only reason _you_ found out was because you came into the bathroom when I was trying to calm myself down—”

Ellen presses her lips together at the memory, clearly troubled by it.

“I wish you would have felt like you could tell me.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t. I just didn’t want to worry you. It was nothing you did—only that I _loved_ you. I felt guilty. _Feel_ guilty.”

“And so do I.” Ellen frowns.

“Don’t.”

“It’s not that simple, Dean.” She laughs, shaking her head. “But I’m glad to know that Castiel helps. What does he do?”

“Hugs me.” Dean answers. “Gets me a drink. Talks to me. Tells me it’s only us there, no matter how many attempts it takes. He’s—” Dean laughs. “—Yeah. I don’t know.”

“And what _are_ the two of you?”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Geez, Ellen, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

Ellen gives Dean an unimpressed look, to which he laughs and answers,

“I don’t know? We’ve been dating for _months,_ but—we’re definitely in a relationship. We agreed that pretty early on. And we’re boyfriends, but I hate that word, and so does Cas… We’re exclusive, too? And always have been, even when we weren’t _explicitly…_ I don’t know. It’s difficult to explain.”

“And how serious are you?”

Dean worries at his lip.

“I don’t really know what Cas wants.” He confesses. “I know what _I_ want… But the way that Cas talks… Sometimes it makes me think that he wants all that stuff, too? I’m not sure.” He admits. “I mean, Cas _really_ hates labelling stuff, and I’m pretty sure he’d hate the word ‘serious’—but I think we are? I _hope_ we are?”

Ellen smiles and squeezes his arm.

“It sounds as though you’re pretty serious. Don’t worry about it.”

“Dean, tell us about this fight you got into!” Jo exclaims, turning to her brother. Dean rolls his eyes. Castiel pulls an apologetic face.

“Sorry—Bobby asked me about it.”

Dean sighs and laughs.

“Ask ‘Zeke. He’s got a _film_ of it.”

“Ezekiel _filmed_ it?” Ellen asks. She sounds horrified.

“I like the way Ezekiel rolls.” Sam grins. Dean kicks him under the table and ignores his loud cry of protest.

“No, _Ezekiel_ didn’t film it. He’s just got a copy of it—someone sent it to him—he shows it to _everyone,_ now, it’s—”

“I’ll ask if he can send it to me.” Cas pulls out his phone. “No—wait—didn’t someone put it up online?”

“Someone put it on the _internet?!”_

“Hey, Ellen, they’re teenagers. What did you expect?”

“A _little_ more maturity, Bobby—”

“Found it.” Dean grins, playing the video on his phone. Ellen’s eyes go wide.

“Why isn’t anyone helping you?” She demands. Dean can’t control his laughter.

“Woah, you sound exactly like Cas.” He grins. Both Ellen and Castiel glare at Dean.

“It’s only _natural_ that we should worry, Dean.” Castiel frowns. Dean snorts.

“And I can hold my own, mom—clearly.” He turns back to Ellen.

She looks unconvinced.

“You could’ve gotten into so much trouble, Dean…”

“But I didn’t.” Dean shrugs. “I was defending someone—you see that little guy on the floor, there? Yeah, him.”

“Where did you learn to fight like this?”

“Bobby, don’t encourage him!”

“Can you teach me?”

“Jo!” Ellen exclaims.

“Sure.” Dean grins.

“Dean!”

“What?”

“Couldn’t you set a _slightly_ better example? It’s not as though needs any more excuses to be—”

“—The trick is, Jo,” Dean starts, turning to face his sister, “that you go for the groin. Every single time. Just go for the groin. It doesn’t even matter. I mean that. Kick them in the dick—”

“ _Dean!”_

“—Although I actually heard that a man can run like, four miles with no dick, so maybe—”

_“Dean Winchester!”_

“I feel queasy.” Sam grimaces. Bobby snorts a laugh. Ellen glares daggers at him.

“My other advice? Fighting fair is overrated.” Dean continues. “You’re in a fight, you’re not playing football, you know what I mean? Anything is fair game. Like, if someone attacks you, and you _happen_ to have a knife on your possession,”

_“Dean,”_

“Just use it.” Dean carries on, grinning broadly at Ellen’s facial expression. “You’re getting attacked—and you’re a little girl—don’t take offense at that, please—I just mean that you can be pretty vulnerable.”

“Why would Jo have a knife on her person?”

“Come on, it’s _Jo._ Why _wouldn’t_ she have a knife on her?—Also, headbutts are underrated.” Dean nods sagely. He catches Castiel supressing a smirk. “As are elbows. Seriously—they’re the sharpest point of the body! Use them to jab.”

“Jab?” Jo repeats, giggling.

“That’s the technical term, yeah.” Dean grins, winking. His sister is sent into another fit of giggles.

“Honestly,” Ellen sighs.

“Sorry.” Dean grins sheepishly. “But wouldn’t you rather Jo knew how to defend herself?”

“My fear is that Jo will end up being the attacker.”

“I _do_ want to be a spy.” Jo beams.

“You probably shouldn’t have said that, then.” Dean laughs. “Now we all know.”

“I heard you weren’t even allowed to tell your family, if you become a _really_ secret spy.”

“You’ll have to erase all our memories, Jo.” Dean winks again at his sister.

“Castiel, that reminds me,” Ellen turns to the angel. “We’ve got a friend who works in a publishing company, back home—I thought that’d be exactly your kind of thing. Would you want to get some experience there if you do end up coming to stay with us?”

Castiel positively glows with how widely he smiles.

“Oh—that’s so thoughtful of you—”

“It’s really nothing.” Ellen replies, shaking her head. “How would you feel about it?”

“I mean, I’d really love that—”

“How the hell did us talking about being a _secret agent_ remind you about fucking _publishing?”_

“Dean, language.”

Sam bites down on a smug laugh. Dean kicks him again.

“Ow!”

“Dean—”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Honestly, it’s like none of you are _ever_ going to grow up—”

“What’s your sister like, Castiel?” Jo asks, turning to the angel.

“Rachel? She’s—well, I mean, _I_ think she’s wonderful, but then I suppose I _would_ say that—”

“Do you get along with her?”

“Very well, yes.” Castiel nods, smiling.

“That must be nice.” Ellen sighs wistfully. “I can only dream of having kids that get along with one another.”

“Hey, Ellen, we get along fine!” Dean exclaims, glaring.

“You really wanna use that argument?”

“It’s just funny,” Sam shrugs. “As in, annoying Dean is funny, kicking each other is—”

“You’ve got a warped sense of humour.”

“We just can’t use words to express our real affections for each other.”

“So you use violence?”

“You said it,” Dean grins. “Not me.”

“You’re all impossible.”

“Is Rachel gonna be staying with us?” Jo asks Castiel.

“I haven’t confirmed with her, yet—I haven’t even confirmed _my_ summer plans—but I did mention it to her, and she seemed—”

“Has Dean met her yet?”

“Only once,” Castiel answered. “Before we’d actually—”

“Hooked up?” Sam grins.

“Got together.” Castiel answers, uncomfortable again.

“Would you and Dean be sharing a room, if you came to stay?”

“Um—” Castiel falters. Sam snorts a laugh into his drink; Ellen immediately chides Jo for being _so_ inappropriate.

“Of course you and Dean can share a room, Castiel.” Ellen turns back to the angel, whose face has turned a bright red. Dean is sure his has done the same.

“I wouldn’t want to cause any inconvenience—”

“You really wouldn’t.” Ellen beams. “Sam moved out of Dean’s room last year, so they don’t share anymore.”

“And if you don’t want to share, you can always kick Sammy out of his bed and he can sleep on the couch,” Jo grins. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Honestly, Jo, why wouldn’t Castiel want to share a room with Dean?”

“I don’t know, maybe he snores, or something?”

“Only a little,” Sam shrugs. “And I’ve shared with him for almost my whole _life—”_

“Dean snores?!” Jo grins.

“You just asked me, and I answered,” Sam rolls his eyes.

“Both of you, fuck off.” Dean bites back at his siblings. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what we aim for.”

“Dean, I _just_ asked you to watch your language—”

“Bobby curses all the time,” Dean protests, “and you never give _him_ shit for it!”

“Dean!”

 

…

 

Dean has packed up all his stuff. Ezekiel sits on his floor. Castiel helps him with the last of his bags.

“Okay, so I know that the two of you will probably be wanting to fuck at like, every waking hour,”

“—‘Zeke—”

“—And will probably not care about your poor, brilliant friend Ezekiel who actually got the two of you together in the first place—”

“Ezekiel,” Castiel frowns.

“—And, more than that, actually fucking _introduced_ the two of you—”

“What’s your point, ‘Zeke?” Dean asks, rolling his eyes.

“If you wanted to stay with me a while, I don’t know, it’d be really nice to see both of you. My parents have a beach house—”

“—Fuck, Ezekiel, how rich _are_ you?!”

“—And the _last_ thing I want to do is have to spend weeks with them, alone in it—it’s so big and pretentious and shitty and horrible—”

“Yeah, it must be so fucking hard having parents who can afford—”

“Fuck off.” Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the point is, I’d really really like to have you guys there. You’d make it way happier, even if it was for a couple of days. And you’re both my best friends—which is actually kind of depressing, now that I think about it.”

“Why is it depressing?” Castiel asks, frowning.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Clearly not.” Castiel’s frown continues to pinch his features together. Dean cannot help but find it the most endearing thing he thinks he’s ever witnessed.

“Because you’re _dating.”_ Ezekiel groans. “I’m such a fucking third wheel.”

“I thought it was your _plan_ for us to get together?” Dean asks, grinning.

“Well, yes,” Ezekiel admits. “But you’ve got to promise not to leave me out! Ever!”

“There are some things that you may _want_ to be left out of in me and Dean’s relationship, Ezekiel.” Castiel points out. Ezekiel’s expression in response to this comment is honestly hilarious; the angel wrinkles his nose and squints at Castiel, flapping his arms dismissively.

“Ew. Gross. Don’t even start. Ugh. Fuck off.”

Dean snorts. Ezekiel stops pulling the face and his expression turns sombre again.

“And on that topic, actually, if you guys _did_ come and stay, you’d have to sleep in separate bedrooms. I’m sorry—that’s just the way it is—” He shakes his head.

_“Fuck. Off.”_

“I’m only kidding!” Ezekiel laughs, standing up and raising his hands in mock-surrender.

“It’s funny, your jokes are never _actually—”_

“You’re so easily offended, Cassie.” Ezekiel grins, finally helping Dean carry his stuff. They exit Dean’s room; he glances around it to check that he’s remembered everything, before finally exiting. “You need to chill, you know?”

“You’re one to talk.” Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Hey, I’m the most laid back person I know!” Ezekiel protests.

“Do you remember _how offended_ you got when you found out me and Dean were together?”

“Hey, all I knew was that you’d _definitely_ just fucked. That was all—I didn’t know whether you were in a relationship, or not! I thought you were taking advantage of him!”

“You overreacted.”

“You should be _glad_ that I look out for Dean so much.” Ezekiel retorts. “He’s lucky to have me.”

“I think about that every day, ‘Zeke.” Dean grins, bumping shoulders with the other angel. Ezekiel beams before turning back around to Castiel to stick his tongue out at his roommate.

Once outside Bobby’s truck, piling Dean’s things into it, conversation returns to Dean and Castiel visiting Ezekiel.

“I’d really appreciate it if you did.” Ezekiel confesses earnestly.

“And I’d really appreciate staying in a gorgeous house by the sea,” Dean winks. “Both of us can get what we want. Who needs charity?”

Ezekiel laughs, rolling his eyes, and pulls Dean in to a tight hug, clapping him firmly on the back.

“I’m gonna miss you, man.” He mumbles into Dean’s shoulder. Dean snorts—it’s so rare that the angel is serious, it’s almost strange to hear him say things such as this so earnestly.

“I’m gonna miss you, too.”

“You’d better not be lying about coming to visit.” Ezekiel frowns, pulling back from Dean. He glares at the human and Dean hardly knows how to react, other than by laughing and shaking his head.

“Text me a date, and I’ll be there.” He replies, clapping the angel on the shoulder.

“Awesome.” Ezekiel breaks out into an unrestricted beam. “And you’d better text me, anyway. _And_ call. Every day. I’m gonna _miss_ you.”

“You’ve said,” Dean chuckles, ruffling Ezekiel’s hair. The angel rolls his eyes but can’t seem to help his smile, and pulls Dean in for another hug.

“Cool.” He sniffs. “See you. Soon.”

“Have an awesome summer.” Dean grins. “Until I next see you.”

“Which will be soon.” Ezekiel repeats.

“Very soon.” Dean confirms.

He turns to Castiel and is shocked by the force of the hug that he is given.

“Ezekiel’s already said everything I want to say.” Castiel mumbles into Dean’s neck. His lips ghost the human’s skin; Dean shivers. “I’m going to miss you, Dean.”

“It’s what, a week until you come and stay?”

“I’m going to miss you.” Castiel repeats. “Don’t do anything silly—”

“Cas, how old do you think I am?” Dean laughs, rolling his eyes.

“Call me—”

“Oh my—”

Castiel moves to kiss Dean. He hears Jo make a noise of disgust from inside the truck. She starts banging on the window and yelling at Dean to speed up. He laughs gently, grinning, mortified, against Castiel’s mouth. The angel eventually pulls back, just as Ellen has started chastising Jo for being _so insensitive_ to Dean and _so rude_ to lovely polite Castiel. He presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“I’ll count the days until I see you again.” He beams.

“Life isn’t a Jane Austen novel, Cas,” Dean grins. Castiel snorts and hugs Dean again, kissing his cheek. Dean’s heart swells with yet _another_ new feeling for the angel.

“See you soon.”

“I’ll miss you.” Dean replies honestly, climbing into the truck.

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“Both of you!” Dean calls as Bobby starts up the engine. Ezekiel grins and shouts to Dean how much he loves him. Dean gives him the finger in response. Laughing as they drive away, Castiel and Ezekiel’s bodies growing smaller and smaller as they fade into the distance, Dean turns back to his family.

“Last time we were in this position,” Sam grins, “you were telling us how much you liked Castiel and how he didn’t like you back.”

Jo lights up.

“Oh, yeah! You had such a _massive_ crush on him!”

“And now you’re together.” Sam beams wistfully. “Like actually _dating._ Like, _serious._ It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

Dean rolls his eyes and looks out the window. He doesn’t let his family see his quiet beam in response to this thought.

“Yeah,” He mumbles. “I guess it is.”


	20. Pure Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can finally get back to updating The College Years! Sorry for the massive break everyone who was waiting patiently, and thank you so much - I've begun to post my new story, The Devi's Epitaph, on here, and so if you want to check that out too, I'd really appreciate it!
> 
> As for this upcoming chapter, aside from the obvious (that I hope you're all happy with it) I also ought to warn that there's some pretty heavy smut at the end of the chapter (I think this was at the request of someone, but I can't remember who)
> 
> Please comment with any more requests of what you'd like to see Dean and Cas do over their summer together, and any thoughts on the story in general - other than that, enjoy!

 

“Rachel will be coming down in a couple of days.” Castiel explains. The angel seems to be finding particularly difficult to keep his hands to himself, even while Dean is driving. Dean _insisted_ that he be the one to pick Castiel up; the last thing in the world that he wants is his family embarrassing him any more than they already will this week. Which is an awful fucking lot. 

“Cas, no offense, but—” Dean’s eyes threaten to flutter closed as the angel’s fingers fumble around his waistband, “—could you, like— _fuck,_ Cas, I’m _driving.”_  

Castiel’s eyes spark with something—Dean catches it in his peripherals and can only frown questioningly at the road as Castiel’s fingers drag up and down his thigh. 

“I’d noticed,” The angel nods, lips twitching wickedly upwards. “It’s hot.” 

Dean nearly chokes. 

“ _Dude—”_  

“I’ve _missed_ you,” The angel frowns. 

“You’ve said,” Dean laughs, grinning at the road. He grips the steering wheel a little tighter as Castiel’s hands move to touch the skin under his shirt. _“Cas—”_  

“What?” Castiel asks, pulling back suddenly. Dean can’t help the little whine that escapes his lips at this, and what makes it worse is that the angel actually _laughs_ at it _._  

“Hey, you were the one getting all—” Dean struggles for words because he can feel Castiel’s gaze pressed so firmly on the side of his face, “— _handsy_ _—_ for want of a better word—so don’t blame me when I complain if you remove yourself so damn suddenly—” 

“But I thought you weren’t enjoying me touching you?” Castiel asks, feigning concern. Dean nearly growls in response. 

“I never said that,” He glares at the road ahead of him, “and anyway, I only wanted you to stop because I didn’t want to crash and _kill_ both of us because you couldn’t keep it in your damn pants.” 

“Then pull over.” Castiel replies shortly, as though it’s the simplest thing in the damn world. Dean glances over to him and gauges the look in the angel’s eyes—he’s obviously not joking right now, which makes Dean’s skin prickle and he nearly has to look away because of the hungry, intent look in Castiel’s eyes. 

“Cas, they’ll wonder why we’re taking so long—” 

“Then tell them there’s traffic.” Castiel shrugs. “I’ve _missed_ you.” 

“You’ve _said.”_ Dean repeats. 

“ _All_ of you.” 

Dean has to stare at the road. His insides are trembling in a new and fresh way, the thought of him and Cas _fucking_ in the Impala has his vision growing blurry. He blinks hard. Something is squeezing at his gut and pulsing blood, hot as magma, through his system. 

“You look good like this.” Castiel comments. Dean swallows thickly. The angel’s hand has come to trace innocent patterns on his shoulder, but it has Dean’s skin dancing and he tilts his head without realising it, practically begging Castiel to move up to stroking his neck. The angel snorts gently. “And I think you know it.” Castiel comments thoughtfully. 

“I’ve been told I’m pretty more than enough, Cas.” Dean laughs, but the sound is weak and breathy and _fuck,_ is he really as close as he thinks he is to pulling over and begging the angel to kiss his lips red and raw? 

“Impossible,” Castiel shakes his head. “You’re perfect. You can’t ever be told enough.” 

Dean tries to breathe deeply. He realises his hands, gripped so tightly around the wheel that his knuckles are turning white, somehow still manage to tremble. 

“God, do I want you.” Castiel breathes, fingers trailing back down Dean’s neck, so soft they’re almost not there, and _fuck,_ that’ll do it—Dean pulls over, hardly able to coordinate himself, let alone drive, and in the next instant Castiel is pressing burning kisses up and down his neck. Dean’s hand moves immediately to the angel’s hair, he swallows thickly and Castiel hums against his skin, breath hot enough to have all of Dean’s skin dancing. 

“Missed you,” Castiel beams into the curve of Dean’s neck. His stubble burns Dean’s skin; Dean can’t help but tilt his head back and groan when the angel begins sucking at Dean’s flesh. “Missed this.” 

“Cas—please—” Dean gasps, “don’t—don’t leave any marks—I’d be _mortified—”_  

The angel stops, but drags Dean over to him to kiss him, hard and claiming, on the lips. Dean is shaking, all of him is shaking, he didn’t realise how badly he wanted all of this, and _now—_  

Castiel is kissing down his neck, mouthing at the juncture between Dean’s neck and shoulder, Dean’s hand returns to Castiel’s hair and he groans, unable to stop himself, unable to calm the pulsing arousal that thrums hotly through him at this moment.  

“I’ve missed—” He gasps, unable to continue when Cas begins to palm at his jeans. Dean’s eyes flutter closed. Fuck, fuck it, the only thing to do at times like this is just to give in, to let Castiel lead the way and take Dean wherever he wants to go—he swallows thickly when Cas ducks his head down and begins mouthing at the growing bulge in Dean’s pants; it shouldn’t be as hot as it is but _fuck_ it’s so hot to have that frustrating, not-nearly-enough feeling of Cas teasing him in this way again. 

And it feels like it goes on for hours; this teasing, this mouthing and kissing through the material of Dean’s jeans—and Dean is gasping and unable to contain himself and _so fucking glad_ that they’re on an empty fucking road surrounded by trees—and then Castiel _finally_ undoes Dean’s flies and pulls out his dick and— 

Well, shit. 

All Dean can do is let his head loll back against his seat; he can only stand to glance down for a few moments at a time; the sight of Castiel, humming happily, wholly, head bobbing up and down, mouth wrapped around Dean’s dick just too much. Dean’s hands have come to rest in the angel’s hair, he fists at it but can hardly even grip, he feels weak and the dark hair of the angel slides through his fingertips, so soft and perfect and all of this and how _wrong_ it is that Cas is giving him head in his car only adding to the pleasure; the angel hums again and Dean gasps, groans, hips twitching upwards as the angel’s hand moves to play with Dean’s dick and balls and _fuck—_  

Dean realises that a slurred litany of _“Don’t-_ _stop_ _-never-_ _stop_ _,_ _Oh-God-Cas_ _,_ _God I’ve missed you, missed this, don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop”_ has been falling from his lips; he hardly even noticed, he can hardly even think, he gasps and groans and doesn’t stop praying to the angel, _begging_ him to keep going, telling him it feels so good, _so good,_ and then— 

Dean only manages to let out a gasped warning of “Cas—I’m, fuck—Cas—” before he is coming, hard, threads of pleasure rushing through him, out of him, he can’t think, can hardly breathe, can make out Castiel’s glittering blue eyes underneath a frame of charcoal eyelashes, and he’s lost, finished, lost forever. 

Maybe he whites out. He comes to and his body is buzzing, feet feeling numb, Castiel kissing his lips like there’s nothing else more important or delicate in the world, and Dean moves just so that he can bury his face in the angel’s neck. 

“Oh my _God_ —” 

He can’t catch his breath, can’t stop holding on to Castiel—but to his credit, the angel doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Fuck—that was—fuck, Cas, I can’t even _think—”_  

Castiel breathes out a laugh into Dean’s hair. Everything about him is so tender; the fingertips coming to stroke gorgeously down the nape of Dean’s neck, brushing the few stray hairs there so softly it’s like being touched by snowflakes; the nose that presses to the top of Dean’s head and breathes in long, soft sighs; the other hand that has wound around Dean’s waist holds Dean so wonderfully carefully that Dean can hardly think of anything else in the world that could possibly compare to this feeling. 

And what is this feeling? 

He doesn’t get a chance to chase this thought, because after what was _apparently_ a few minutes’ contended silence, Castiel kisses Dean’s temple and does up Dean’s zipper again, and Dean whines and has to look away, but Cas tells him that he needs to start driving again. 

“I want to sleep, now.” Dean moans, staring at the road instead of at Castiel. Castiel exhales an amused breath of laughter. 

“You always do,” He replies, beaming. “Every time. I _knew_ you’d be the type to get sleepy after sex, I _knew_ it.” 

“Then why did you get me off when I’m supposed to be _driving?”_ Dean moans. 

“Because it’s adorable,” Castiel frowns, as though this much ought to be obvious. “And I enjoy getting you off.” He breaks out into a beam again. “I thought you already knew.” 

“I always forget.” Dean sighs, rubbing his eyes. 

“You pull this face, whenever I first touch your dick—no, Dean, look—” Castiel laughs, tugging at Dean’s sleeve. Dean’s face is heating furiously, yet he grins despite himself and pushes Cas away. 

“Dude, fuck off, you’re so embarrassing—” 

“No, look, it’s adorable, it’s my favourite thing—” 

Dean pushes Castiel again and grins ahead of him, pointedly _not_ looking at the angel. 

“And you make this noise at the back of your throat—the first time I kissed you, you made it—and _fuck,_ if it didn’t make me want to fuck you into the next century—” 

“Cas, I know you just got me off, but if you carry on like that—” 

“I haven’t seen you for a week.” The angel states, voice suddenly even rougher than usual. “I couldn’t stop _thinking_ about—” 

“You’re like a damn rabbit, you know that?” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Like, fuck—” 

“You enjoy it,” Castiel replies. “And you’re _just_ as bad.” 

“Not true.” Dean shakes his head again. 

“ _Definitely_ true.” 

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Dean laughs, running a hand through his hair. “ _What the fuck?”_  

“What?” Castiel frowns softly. 

“I haven’t done anything like that in my car for _so long—”_  

“Really?” 

“Yeah—I used to bring girls here and make out with them and maybe sometimes more—but that was _years_ ago—” 

“You don’t regret it, do you?” Castiel asks, suddenly concerned. 

“Fuck no, Cas,” Dean glances at the angel to give him a reassuring look. “Really, no—it was _great—_ and anyway, I—” Dean laughs and has to look away, face heating. “I definitely wanted it, don’t worry about that.” 

“I’ve missed you.” 

Dean laughs again. 

“Yeah, and I’ve missed _you.”_  

“I’m excited to see your bedroom.” 

“Why?” Dean frowns gently. 

“You can just tell a lot about a person, from what their bedroom’s like.” Castiel shrugs. “Do you have any posters? Any pictures covering the walls?” 

“I keep postcards and photographs and concert tickets up there,” Dean answers, smiling as the sun shines through the leaves above their heads and sends skittering jade patterns dancing through the car. “A couple of music posters, which you’ll probably hate,” He admits, blushing. 

“I’d never hate them,” Castiel laughs. “I could never hate _anything_ about you.” 

Dean rolls his eyes and attempts to suppress his grin in response to this sentiment. 

“ _Sure_ you couldn’t.” 

“Really.” 

“You’re fucking corny as hell, you know? It’s actually appalling, I—” 

“What colour are your walls?” Castiel asks. “White? Blue? Cream?” 

“Guess.” 

“Gray?” 

 _“_ _Gray_ _?”_  

“It looks nice!” Castiel defends quickly. “Modern, even.” 

Dean snorts. 

“Why didn’t the rest of your family come to pick me up?” Castiel asks. Dean smirks. 

“Would you have rathered that they did?” 

“No, I never said _that_ _—”_  

“I wanted some time alone with you.” Dean shrugs. “And I’m glad that I got it.” 

Castiel’s lips twitch softly upwards. 

“There are a lot of trees here.” He observes. Dean glances over to him, supressing a beam, though he isn’t sure what he should be beaming at. 

“There are,” He nods. “Is that a problem?” 

“I like trees.” Castiel smiles absently, staring out the window. Dean’s lips twitch upwards. 

“You’re a damn weirdo—” 

“And yet you _still_ like me.” 

“I know—call it what you will—charity—” 

Castiel hits Dean lightly on the arm and shakes his head, smiling reluctantly. 

“You’re lucky I like you so much.” He states, matter-of-factly. “Nobody else would get away with the crap that you say.” 

“Is that so?” 

“It is.” Castiel nods, refusing to budge. Dean snorts. 

“What’re you gonna do about it?” 

“About you being so rude?” Castiel asks, frowning thoughtfully. “Hmm, I hadn’t given the matter too much thought, actually—but now that I _do_ think about it—” He glances deliberately over to Dean. “Perhaps some kind of punishment _is_ needed…” 

Dean bursts out laughing and pushes Castiel lightly, one hand on the wheel. 

“You dirty bastard, Cas,” Dean grins. “I never knew you were into that kind of thing!” 

Castiel beams and pushes Dean back. 

“I’m full of surprises, you’ll find.” 

When Dean pulls up at the front of his home, he turns to face Castiel properly. 

“Listen, Cas, my family are probably gonna be super weird—” 

“I _like_ your family, Dean.” 

“—And I get if this all feels like it’s moving too fast—I’ll understand if maybe it gets to be too much—” 

“I’m happy about the way that we’re moving.” Castiel frowns. “Both in where it seems we’re going and how fast we’re getting there.” 

“But my family can be _really_ intense—” 

“And people have said that I can be, as well.” Castiel shrugs coolly. 

“And I never even asked you if you actually _wanted_ to do this—I should’ve checked to see if you were cool with staying with my family—” 

“Dean, if I could hardly stand spending a week without seeing you, then I pretty clearly wanted to spend at least _some_ of my summer with you.” 

“Yeah, but under these circumstances?” Dean raises his eyebrows worriedly at Castiel. 

“Yes, under these circumstances.” Castiel confirms. “Come on,” He takes hold of Dean’s hand, squeezing it for a moment before opening his door. “You’re gonna have to get out of here some time.” 

Dean groans and bangs his head softly on the wheel, anxiety worming its way through him, before he finally follows suits and gets out of the car. 

“It’s fine, Dean,” Castiel frowns quizzically at the human. “I honestly don’t know what you’re worrying about.” 

“I’m just thinking out every possible scenario in which your stay here could end quite literally in tears.” Dean sniffs, still more worry twisting at his insides. 

“Don’t,” Castiel shakes his head. He approaches Dean and stands by the human’s side, squeezing Dean’s hand softly. “I… I’ve been looking forward to this. Honestly. Your family’s great—I really like them.” 

Dean blushes and looks away. 

“Honestly, I can’t believe _you’re_ the one having to comfort _me…_ I mean, I should be the one giving you the pep talk, psyching you up—” 

Castiel stops Dean with a kiss. 

“Me reassuring you is a pretty nice distraction from my nerves, so it’s fine.” 

“You’re nervous?” 

“Only because I want your family to like me, Dean.” Castiel laughs, squeezing the human’s hand again. 

“They already love you, seriously.” Dean rolls his eyes. _“Way_ too much.” The angel reddens, expression quietly happy, which has Dean beaming. “Come on, then.” He sighs, tugging Castiel up the porch and opening the front door. 

“Your house looks like the dolls houses my sister used to gape at in magazines.” Castiel mumbles, glancing at the door before stepping inside. 

“Really?” Dean asks, chuckling. 

“Yes,” Castiel confirms. “It’s so _nice.”_  

“Tell Ellen that, she’ll love you forever.” Dean snorts, tugging at the angel again. 

Like he’s summoned her, Ellen appears at Dean’s side in the next instant, beaming broadly and pulling Castiel into a tight hug. Dean can’t help but compare this to her suspicious treatment of the angel the last time she saw him, and he wonders if Castiel will notice this or even wonder why. Now, however, Ellen is especially warm and is gushing at the angel about how much Dean’s missed him and for _fuck’s_ sake, 

“Mom, shut the hell up,” Dean groans. 

“Oh, but you _have!”_ Ellen exclaims. “And do you know,” She starts, turning to Castiel just as the sound of heavy running footsteps—of either Sammy or Jo, or maybe even both—sound upstairs. “He absolutely _insisted_ on being the one to pick you up—” 

“And why do you think _that_ was?” Dean asks sarcastically. Ellen only bats him away and invites Castiel into the kitchen for a drink. 

“Dean, where are Castiel’s bags?” 

“Still in the car.” Dean frowns. 

Ellen sighs, exasperated. 

“Well, go get them!” She exclaims. “Honestly, Dean—” 

“It’s fine, I can get them—” Castiel starts, but Ellen waves his concern away with her hand. 

“No, Dean’s got it.” She shakes her head. 

“I don’t wanna leave Cas alone with you.” Dean rolls his eyes just as Bobby enters the room. “You’ll probably be looking through baby photos when I come back.” 

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Ellen beams back at Dean. “But now you mention it—” 

“Where are you going?” Sammy asks, running into the room, very obviously out of breath. 

“Why did you take so long to come down?” Dean retorts, as Jo follows, also panting heavily. “I heard you running for the stairs _ages_ ago.” 

“We had a bet on who could get to Cas first. It got intense.” Sammy answers. “Hey, Cas.” He grins, nodding over to the angel, who smiles nervously and nods back. 

“Of course you did.” Dean stares at the ceiling, sighing. “Fucking—” 

“Dean!” 

“Why did it take so long, if you were racing?” Castiel asks, obviously confused. 

“I’m guessing it was less racing, and more both of you trying to wrestle the other to the ground?” Dean raises his eyebrows at his siblings, who, still panting, grin sheepishly. 

“Pretty much.” Sam admits. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Dean asks, Jo pulling a face at him in response. He attempts to swat at her, but Ellen reprimands him, then Jo when she attempts to react. 

“Jo, go help your brother pick up Castiel’s bags.” Ellen glares at the two of them. _“Honestly.”_  

 _“Honestly.”_ Dean and Jo both repeat, mimicking her tone perfectly—Dean, laughing too hard to look back, darts out the room before Ellen can chide either of them again, Jo quick on his heels, giggling happily. 

“Are Cas’s bags in your car?” She asks, hopping along to catch up with him as he opens the door, letting her through first. 

“Yep,” Dean smiles, ruffling Jo’s hair. She wrinkles her nose at her older brother and attempts to bat him away, but Dean dodges. 

“Are you happy he’s here?” She asks. 

“No, I’m actually really cut up about it.” Dean grins. Jo sticks her tongue out back at Dean. 

“You know, you smile a _lot_ when he’s around.” 

“That’s maybe a good thing,” Dean says in feigned thoughtfulness, “considering the fact we’re going out? I don’t know—I’m just bouncing ideas around here, but a new study actually suggests that people should actually _like_ the people they date. It’s probably some bullshit New Age thing, but, y’know.” 

He opens the trunk of his car as Jo rolls her eyes and picks up one of Castiel’s bags. 

“Well, whatever.” Jo huffs. “It was only an observation.” 

“Don’t take the _bigger_ one,” Dean sighs, “ _honestly_ Jo, it’s half the size _you_ are.” 

This, of course, is a really fucking brilliant way to get Jo’s face to harden stubbornly, and her to tug up the bag with all her might and stamp back toward the house, frame wobbling under the weight of Castiel’s things. Dean almost laughs. He picks up the other bag, closing the trunk, and darts after her. 

“And _anyway,”_ Jo starts as she heaves it up the porch. Dean supresses his smile, pressing his lips together as a swell of bright, sweet affection for his little sister blossoms in his heart. “You and Cas seem to be doing more than _just_ _dating.”_  

“The hell does that mean?” 

“Come _on,_ Dean.” Jo rolls her eyes as Dean opens the door to their house, again. “You _really_ like him.” 

“Of course I do,” Dean frowns softly. “I don’t—well, _now_ I don’t just waltz into relationships with people I don’t ‘really’ like.” He points out. “And you know why.” 

Jo’s face turns solemn and she looks away. 

“And anyway,” Dean continues, rolling his eyes. “You need to stop saying shit like that—I’m not saying that you’re _wrong,_ I’m just saying I don’t know exactly how Cas feels, what he thinks of me, of our relationship, et cetera—I don’t know what he wants out of this, he’s always kind of vague, and—” Dean blushes, realising he’s babbling. “If he hears you saying something about how I really _really_ like him, he’s gonna get scared, and I don’t know what he’ll do then, but I can bet that I wouldn’t like it.” 

“You don’t know he’ll do any of that,” Jo frowns up at Dean indignantly. “ _He_ really likes _you,_ too.” 

“Shut up.” Dean hisses. Jo pulls a face. “I’m not kidding, not another word.” 

He opens the kitchen door; Cas is sat at the kitchen table with a drink in front of him—Dean guesses that it’s jasmine tea, Cas’s favourite, while Ellen sits opposite him, Sam to his side. Bobby has begun cooking dinner. 

“Cas, d’you wanna come upstairs and unpack?” Dean asks, holding up the angels bag. Castiel looks up from the table and smiles softly. 

“Okay—where will I be sleeping?” 

“With me?” Dean squints at the angel, who blushes while Sammy snorts to the angel’s right. 

“I was just checking.” 

“C’mon.” Dean rolls his eyes, gesturing for Castiel to follow him. “Jo,” He turns to his sister, “thanks for grabbing Cas’s stuff, we can take it from here.” 

“You sure?” She grins up at Dean. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dean deadpans as he takes the bag off her—Castiel quickly takes it off of Dean. “Go on, get outta here.” He ruffles her hair again, and Jo sticks her tongue out before skipping out the room and thumping up the stairs, probably to her own bedroom. “This way,” Dean smiles back to Castiel, whose gaze had followed Jo as she run up the staircase. 

“She’s a force to be reckoned with.” He comments, smiling at the top of the stairway then back at Dean. He grins and sighs slightly wistfully. 

“You’re telling me,” He shakes his head. “I just worry what she’s gonna be like when she gets _older.”_  

“Why’s that?” Castiel frowns as Dean gestures for the angel to follow him up the stairs. 

“Because,” Dean explains, looking back at Castiel as he climbs, “people get _more_ independent as they get older, and right now I genuinely think she could live on her own in an apartment in New York and run her own business and be totally _fine.”_  

Castiel chuckles at this. 

“And people tend to get more confident—and already I’m pretty sure she’d run at a bull whilst wearing bright scarlet, only to cartwheel away laughing as part of a bet—” 

“You’d probably be the one to bet her.” Castiel points out. 

“Yeah, but she’d be the one to _do it—_ and that’s another thing—you don’t have to do everything someone suggests just because they place a _bet_ on it.” 

“You don’t.” Castiel agrees. 

“Right? But try telling _her_ that.” 

The angel chuckles again and grazes his knuckles against Dean’s neck as he climbs the last of the stairs. 

“Where to next?” He asks, voice rough as gravel and sweet as honey, breath grazing Dean’s skin. The human can’t help but shiver. 

“Cas, it’s not that I don’t like it when you talk like that, or touch me like that,” Dean turns to speak quietly to the angel. “But save it for my room? Please? I’d _die_ if anyone saw—” 

“Understood.” Castiel smiles gently, standing back. “You know, you’re quite easily embarrassed—especially regarding your family.” 

“You don’t say.” Dean resists the urge to groan. “Come on, it’s this way.” He leads the angel down the hall, then to their right. 

“Why is that?” Castiel asks as Dean opens his bedroom door. The human shrugs and makes a non-committal noise at the back of his throat while Cas stands against the doorframe. “This is your room?” Castiel asks, stepping inside. Dean turns to face him, putting down the angel’s bags. 

“Yeah.” He confirms, examining the angel’s face slowly. “What is it?” 

“Your walls are green,” Castiel beams, putting his bag down. “I should have guessed.” 

“Why should you have guessed?” Dean asks, frowning. 

“Everything about you is green,” Castiel shrugs, stepping forward and examining Dean’s bedroom as though this comment needs no further explanation. 

“Sorry, do you mean that I’m a jealous person?” Dean asks incredulously. 

“No,” The angel chuckles, investigating the guitars mounted on Dean’s wall. His fingers ghost over the strings. “I always forget that you play,” He smiles wistfully. “And then I remember and I can’t stop thinking about how perfect and wonderful and _you_ it is that you do.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Would you ever play for me?” Castiel asks, spinning round to face Dean. 

“Um—I’m probably too sober to do that right now, Cas—” Dean laughs self-consciously. 

“Do you ever write music?” 

“Nothing that I would share,” Dean rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. 

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” Castiel takes a step closer to Dean, only to graze his nose across the human’s, nothing more. “I’ll stop.” 

“You don’t need to—” Dean frowns, attempting to drag Castiel back to him for a kiss, but the angel only tugs Dean forward and moves towards the photos covering part of his wall. 

“You,” He beams, pointing to one of them. Dean steps closer to examine the photograph in question—it’s him and his mother, him sat on Mary’s lap as she reads to him from a storybook. 

“Yeah, that’s me.” 

“You were adorable,” Castiel beams, leaning closer to the picture and squinting to get a better look. “And that’s your mother?” 

Dean swallows, a lump rising in his throat. 

“Yeah,” He nods. 

“She was very beautiful.” 

Dean finds himself swallowing again. 

“Yeah, she was.” 

“Am I being too presumptuous?” Castiel asks, turning to face Dean again. “Too nosy?” 

“Not at all,” Dean shakes his head quickly. “It’s fine, really—I don’t mind—” 

Castiel takes a step closer and _finally_ kisses Dean again; but it’s light and soft and sweet as hell and hardly there at all, and only lasts a bright, fleeting moment before Castiel pulls away and turns back to the photographs. 

“You,” He beams again, pointing to another one. “How old were you?” 

“Oh, maybe fourteen? Fifteen?” 

“You were so handsome, even then—” 

“Woah, fuck off,” Dean wrinkles his nose, pushing Castiel lightly. 

“No, I’m not joking!” Castiel chuckles. “Look at all of these! If I had to describe the perfect person—you look like a _model—_ ” 

Dean makes fake vomiting noises and Castiel hugs him into his side. 

“Your hair here is _hilar_ _—”_  

“Oh, don’t start.” Dean rolls his eyes, face heating. 

“I was _going_ to say adorable.” 

“You were totally fucking not.” Dean shakes his head, pulling an unamused face. 

“It’s just—” 

“I’m taking it down, if you’re gonna look at it any longer.” 

“If you hate it so much, why did you have it up in the first place?” 

“It’s a cute one of Sammy,” Dean shrugs. “And _anyway,_ people don’t normally come up here.” 

“By people, you mean…?” 

“People that I’m seeing, friends, so on.” 

“Which makes me pretty special, I suppose?” Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows at the human. Dean groans as Castiel pulls Dean into his side. Dean presses his face into the angel’s neck. 

“Maybe.” He admits. Castiel chuckles and grazes his nose against Dean’s ear. 

“Good,” He mumbles softly. “You’re pretty special, too.” 

Dean beams into the angel’s skin. 

A little while later, and they’re lying back on Dean’s bed, Castiel’s hand in Dean’s hair, listening to slow, soft music drawl out of Dean’s record player. 

“This is the album we listened to the night we first fucked.” Dean mumbles against the angel’s chest. 

“When we were getting baked with Meg and Chuck and that crowd?” Castiel asks. “And don’t say fucked, it wasn’t _fucking—”_  

“What was it then?” Dean asks, laughing. 

“’Fucking’ makes it sound meaningless, which it wasn’t.” Castiel frowns. “I’m very fond of the first time we had sex, you know. As I am with every time since then.” 

Dean snorts out a laugh. 

“’Fucking’ sounds sexy, not meaningless. It’s sounds all rough and good—” 

“And you’re into that kind of thing?” The angel asks, nudging the top of Dean’s head with his nose. 

“Well, I’m not _averse_ to it.” Dean chuckles, blushing despite himself. 

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Castiel mumbles. Dean’s face heats, but he presses himself a little further against Castiel. 

“Times like these are the best times,” He mumbles. “When I can just forget about the rest of the world and be with you.” 

Castiel sighs softly and squeezes Dean’s body a moment. 

“I agree.” He mumbles. 

There comes a knocking at the door. 

“Dinner’s ready.” Comes Sam’s voice from the other side of it—Dean’s grateful he at least had the courtesy not to come in uninvited, but he still resents his time with Cas being interrupted. 

“Alright,” He calls back, sitting up slowly. “We’re coming.” 

“Do we have to?” Castiel moans softly stretching out on the bed. Dean’s lips are tugged upwards. 

“Yeah, sorry man,” He laughs, standing. “I’m hungry.” 

Castiel sighs and rolls off the bed while Dean walks towards his door. 

“Fine,” He grumbles. “What are we doing after we eat?” 

Dean shrugs. “I guess that’s up to you.” He answers as the exit his bedroom. “What would you _like_ to do?” 

“Watch a movie? I don’t know. Spend some more time with you.” 

“Everyone will probably want to get involved if we’re watching a movie, I’m afraid.” Dean shakes his head. Castiel’s eyes spark with amusement. 

“So no make-out sessions?” 

“I guess not.” Dean chuckles, starting down the stairs. 

“It’s difficult to sound genuine when saying something as passionate as this, but I’m honestly _bitterly_ disappointed by that.” 

Dean rolls his eyes, face heating. 

“You’re the absolute worst.” Dean looks away. “Always embarrassing me.” 

“I’m sure you think so.” 

“I do.” Dean nods seriously. 

“After watching the movie, what do you want to do?” 

“I really don’t mind,” Dean shrugs. “Anything.” 

“Anything?” Castiel raises his eyebrows, following Dean down the stairs. 

“Pretty much,” Dean shrugs. “Although, with the bittersweet gift of retrospect, I’m guessing that when _you_ say ‘anything’, you’re thinking more along the lines of—” 

“Do you like lasagne, Castiel?” Ellen asks, waiting at the bottom of the stairs for the pair. 

“Love it,” Castiel smiles gently at Dean’s mother. “Is that what we’re having? Thank you so much for making dinner for us.” 

“It is,” She nods, beaming widely at what she probably deems to be Castiel’s wonderfully polite nature, “and it’s really no problem, Castiel. It was mainly Bobby, anyway.” She says, before giving Dean a fleeting look that seems to say something along the lines of _You-have-such-a-lovely-boyfriend-please-keep-him-forever._ Dean sighs and gives Ellen a deadpan look in response. 

“Cas, can you sit next to me?” Jo asks as Castiel enters the kitchen. Dean groans. 

“Call me selfish, Jo, but I’d kind of been hoping that _I_ could sit next to him?” 

Jo sticks her tongue out at her oldest brother. 

“Joanna Beth, help lay the table and stop teasing Dean.” 

“ _Mom_ —” 

Dean sticks his tongue back out at Jo when Ellen’s back is turned, as Bobby invites him and Castiel to take a seat. Dean is convinced he’s never received such an intense death-stare in all his days of living. 

Sammy takes a seat opposite Dean, who is—thankfully—able to sit next to Castiel. 

“How was your journey here, Cas?” Sam asks, as Bobby, Ellen and Jo take their respective seats at the table, now that everything has been set up. Ellen begins serving everyone lasagne. 

“Long,” Castiel shrugs honestly, laughing a little dryly. “But definitely worth it.” 

Dean flushes furiously. 

“Watch out,” Sam smirks, “you’re making my brother go very red.” 

“Something he has a habit of doing, I’ve noticed.” Castiel laughs. Dean gives the angel as filthy a look as he can muster, but Castiel’s warm expression dissipates it almost immediately. 

“Castiel, is this good for you?” Ellen asks, gesturing to the plate in her hand. 

“Yes, thank you, that’s perfect.” Castiel nods as she passes it down to him. “Thank you very much.” 

“Stop being so nervous.” Dean snorts, shaking his head. 

“He’s not being nervous, he’s just being polite.” Ellen frowns, glaring at Dean. 

“He said thank you—what, maybe three times in one sentence?” 

“ _Twice,_ Dean.” 

“Cas, do you like dogs?” Jo asks, interrupting whatever response Dean would have been able to blurt out at this. 

“Um—” Castiel laughs, still clearly nervous. “Well, I’ve never had one, but I suppose, yes. I’ve noticed you like them?” 

“You only _suppose_ you like dogs?” Jo asks, squinting suspiciously at Castiel. 

“I _do_ like them.” Castiel corrects. 

“You sound a little unsure.” Jo presses her lips together. Dean sighs pointedly. 

“Jo, shut the hell up—”  

“Okay, what kind of dog would you get if you could get one?” Jo asks. 

Castiel licks his lips a moment, glancing at Dean. 

“Maybe an—Irish Setter? Have you ever seen one of them? Or a retriever—like a Flat-Coated Retriever or a Golden Retriever, I don’t know.” He worries at his lip, but Jo seems satisfied by these answers. 

“Those are good choices.” She nods. “I love dogs.” 

“I’d noticed.” Castiel exhales, relaxing visibly—Jo doesn’t seem to hear his comment. Dean snorts at the pair. 

“I’d get a—” 

“Giant Alaskan Malamute?” 

“That’s the one.” Jo beams. “Or a Dalmatian.” 

“Dalmatians are very pretty.” Castiel nods. 

“Aren’t they?” 

“I’d get a Schnauzer.” Sam states. 

“Giant or miniature?” 

Sam makes a slurred _I don’t know_ sound, shrugging, mouth full of food. 

“Both?” He answers noncomittently. “One of each would be pretty cool.” 

“Looking after two dogs would be a lot of hassle.” Bobby points out. 

“But we’re talking _hypothetically,”_ Sam points out. “So I’m not actually _committing_ to anything.” 

“You know, when Dean first met my sister he and Ezekiel had just been playing that game where you pair people to animals.” Castiel shares. “Have you ever played it?” 

“Of _course,_ Castiel.” Jo answers as though this ought to be obvious. 

“You know Cas had never played it before then?” Dean grins at his little sister. 

“ _Seriously?!”_  

“Yeah,” Dean laughs. “Can you believe that?” 

“Hardly.” Bobby deadpans. Ellen bites down on a laugh. 

“What animal did you think Ezekiel was?” Sam asks. 

“Cas settled on a parrot,” Dean answers—Castiel visibly supresses a smirk at the memory—“I thought he was maybe a dog.” 

“I think he’s too clever to be a parrot.” Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know, somehow it just seems wrong.” 

“Ezekiel’s funny,” Jo beams. “I like him.” 

“And I’m sure he likes you too.” Dean smirks patronisingly at his little sister, who frowns up at him. 

“You’d be a chimpanzee,” She states accusingly at her brother. “If you were an animal.” 

“Oh yeah?” Dean laughs. “What makes you say that?” 

“Jo, don’t be rude.” Ellen chides. 

“It’s not rude—they’re actually really clever.” Sam pipes up. 

“You know that’s not why she called Dean a chimp—” 

“Ellen, you’d be a bunny rabbit.” Sam interrupts. 

“No, she’d be a cat.” Jo shakes her head. 

“A bobcat, maybe.” Dean snorts. “It’s a compliment.” He adds quickly when Ellen turns to glare daggers at him. 

“How is it a compliment?” 

“It means that you’re fiery! Protective!” 

“Ellen wouldn’t be a bobcat, she’d be a lioness.” 

“Alright, kiss ass.” 

“Dean!” 

“Sam would be a spaniel.” Dean smirks. “Because of the floppy hair.” 

This has Jo bursting out into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. 

“Okay, forget chimp, Dean would be a goat.” 

“A _goat?”_  

“You heard me.” 

“Why a goat?” 

“Kids, this game seems a lot like an insult-match—” 

“Don’t stop them, Ellen, I’m _enjoying_ it!” 

“Bobby!” 

“Bobby would be a beaver.” 

“A beaver?” 

“Shut up, Sammy, he’d be a _bear.”_  

“Who’s the kiss ass now?” 

“You didn’t let me say what kind of bear.” Dean frowns at his brother. 

“Okay, what kind of bear?” 

“A sun bear.” Dean grins. 

“I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Look it up.” 

“Is that the one that looks like a four year old tried to draw a bear and it just went drastically wrong?” 

“That’s the one.” Dean laughs. 

“Oh, yep, here’s a picture,” Sam grins, stifling his laughter as he looks at his phone. 

“Sam, put your phone away, we’re eating _dinner—”_  

“Look!” Sam exclaims, passing his phone to Jo, who bursts out into a fit of giggles. 

“Sammy—” 

Sam passes his phone to his mother before she can chide him again, and she glances at the screen and snorts out a reluctant laugh at last. 

“Okay, so it’s _funny,”_ She admits—Dean and Sam let out a victorious cheer at this—“but it _doesn’t_ look like Bobby.” 

“Then what _is_ Bobby?” 

“I don’t know, a chipmunk?” 

“Way to patronise your husband, Ellen.” Dean smirks. 

“I’m not meaning to,” Ellen sighs, “it’s just difficult to play this game and _not_ insult people.” 

“I’m not insulted,” Bobby shrugs coolly. “If anybody else had called me a chipmunk, I would be—but coming from my wife, at least it means I’m cuddly.” 

“You’re the cuddliest guy I know.” Dean winks. Bobby laughs sarcastically. 

“And you’re the most _grounded_ guy _I_ know.” 

“Bobby!” 

“Just kidding.” 

“You shouldn’t make that kind of joke.” Dean glares. “Jokes are meant to be _funny.”_  

“I found it hilarious.” Jo pipes up. 

“Jo, another word, and I’ll—” 

“You’ll do what exactly, Dean?” 

“Nothing, Ellen.” Dean sighs, sitting back on his chair. 

“Thank you.” 

“Castiel would be a cat.” 

“But Dean’s allergic to cats!” Jo exclaims. 

“Clearly, he’s willing to look past that, when it comes to Cas.” Sammy smirks. “And they even sound alike! Cas, Cat, Cas, Cat.” 

“Sammy, you’re a goddamn genius.” Dean states sarcastically. “ _Now_ I understand why you want to be a lawyer.” 

“Thanks, Deanie.” 

“Sam, don’t call your brother that name—” 

“Jo would be a kitten, if Cas is a cat.” 

Jo looks horribly offended by this. 

“A _kitten?”_  

“A lion cub.” Castiel corrects. “Soon to become a lioness, like her mother.” 

“Cas, stop trying to butter up my family—” 

Castiel beams and bumps his shoulder against Dean’s. 

“You’d be an Alsatian, like I said last time.” 

“If Dean’s an Alsatian, then you’re a Husky.” Jo decides. 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because of your eyes!” She exclaims. “Huskies have really blue eyes as well!” 

Dean watches Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. 

“And they look grumpy all the time—just like you.” Dean grins. Castiel glances back at him and bites down on a smile, obviously attempting to look pissed off. Jo giggles from across them. 

“Huskies are very cute,” Ellen smiles. 

“Then can we get one?” 

“ _No,_ Jo—” 

“I bet Dean thinks _Cas_ is very cute.” Sam points out, leering at his brother. 

“You say that like you think it’s going to provoke a reaction, Sammy,” Dean sighs, “but I’d like to point out the fact that I’m _dating_ Castiel. _Obviously_ I think he’s very cute.” 

“I think you’re very cute, too.” Castiel beams. 

“Woah, way to be patronising as hell, Cas.” 

“You said it first.” Sam frowns. “If anything, _you’re_ the patronising one. And anyway, you talk condescendingly to me _all the time._ ” 

“Big word for such a little boy.” Dean grins, waggling his eyebrows. 

“Dean, I’m nearly _taller than you—_ and there you go again!” 

“Stop shouting at the dinner table.” Dean grins. Sammy glares daggers at him. 

“Don’t complain about being patronised and then pull shit like this—” 

“Language, Sammy!” 

“Dean’s a bad influence.” Sam rolls his eyes, sitting back on his chair. 

“Maybe, but don’t let yourself be corrupted.” 

“Blame the corruptor, not the corrupted!” 

“That was deep, Sammy.” 

“I swear, the next time you—” 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

Sam kicks Dean under the table. Dean only barks out a laugh in response. 

“Why do you all make dinner so chaotic?” Ellen asks, sighing tiredly. 

“Because it’s entertaining.” Dean shrugs. “If we weren’t doing this, it’d be boring as hell.” 

“That’s just not true.” Ellen frowns. “You know, adults have dinner parties all the time and don’t fight—” 

“—But I bet that it’s better when they do.” Dean grins, winking. “And anyway, why would I want to be like an adult? You guys are _boring.”_  

“Dean, you _are_ an adult.” 

“No I’m not,” Dean shakes his head. “I can’t drink, legally—” 

“—Although that doesn’t seem to stop you—” 

“Bobby, the first time you got drunk was probably aged ten—” 

“Please, Dean,” Sammy interrupts, face concerned and sombre. “It was eight and a half, don’t do the man a discredit! Come on!” 

Dean barks out a laugh, Ellen looks slightly less amused. 

“Kids, come on,” She sighs. “We have a _guest.”_  

“Cas is friends with Ezekiel,” Dean grins. “Chances are, whatever it is that we do, he’s seen far worse.” 

“But Ezekiel is _nice.”_  

“Nice- _ish_ _.”_ Dean corrects. Castiel seems to be biting down on a smirk. 

“What do you mean by that?” Ellen asks. 

“He can be a dick.” Dean shrugs, smirking. 

“ _Intense.”_ Castiel corrects. “And deliberately so, which I guess some people dislike.” 

“You guess?” Dean raises his eyebrows at the angel. 

“Well, I mean, he’s annoying in a kind of endearing way.” 

“Like Dean!” 

“Jo, shut up—he’s more like _you_ than anything else.” 

“I don’t care.” Jo shrugs. “Like I said, I like Ezekiel. I think Ezekiel’s cool.” 

“I’ll tell him you said that, he’ll be over the moon.” 

“Ezekiel probably thinks _I’m_ cool, too.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Dean laughs. Jo pulls an unamused face. 

“Not that this isn’t a riveting conversation,” Bobby rolls his eyes, “but if you guys are done, I’m on dishes, and I’d _really_ like to get a head start on those, so—” 

“Why don’t you complain to Bobby that we have a guest in our presence?!” Dean exclaims. 

“In all honestly, I was glad for the break from all your quarrelling.” 

“If that’s everything, Ellen, then me and Cas are gonna go upstairs—” 

 _“Fine,”_ Ellen sighs. 

“—How come Dean doesn’t have to help clear up?!” 

“I’ll help,” Castiel starts, rising and picking up his plate. 

“Oh—please, Castiel, you don’t have to—it’s very kind, but—” 

“It’s the least I can do.” Castiel says genuinely. “It was delicious, thank you so much for making it.” 

Ellen beams so genuinely Dean thinks she might start glowing. 

“Oh, you’re so sweet,” She gushes. Dean rolls his eyes, getting up to help Bobby by drying the dishes. “I’m so glad Dean is dating someone so thoughtful—” 

“Mom, stop it.” Dean groans, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Well, I’m awfully glad _Dean_ is dating _me.”_ Castiel returns. Dean pretends to vomit. 

“Gross.” He wrinkles his nose. “Both of you. Disgusting.” 

Jo begins giggling. 

“Dean, do you know what?” Ellen sighs, “You can leave it, and I’ll clear up with Bobby. You and Cas can have some alone time.” 

“Thanks,” Dean grins—Castiel tries to protest, insisting he help tidy things away, but Dean drags him out before the angel can change Ellen’s mind. From inside the kitchen, Jo and Sam begin to complain that they want to be exempt from helping out, too, but Ellen doesn’t seem to be having any of it. “Oh, and Ellen?” Dean calls down the stairs as he races up them, Cas following bemusedly behind him. 

“Yes, Dean?” Ellen calls up the stairs. 

“Me and Cas wanted to watch a movie tonight, and I’m guessing you guys’ll wanna crash that. Which is fine.” 

“What movie?” 

“I don’t know.” Dean calls back down. “Haven’t decided.” 

He drags Castiel into his bedroom before sitting back down on the bed, putting a new record on. 

“You’ll like this one.” He grins over to the angel who walks over to the bed and takes a seat next to him. 

“The Mountain Goats?” Castiel asks, frowning inquisitively if a little amusedly at Dean. 

“That’s right.” Dean nods. “I saw you had a bunch of their stuff and thought I’d check them out. They’re alright, you know?” 

“Only alright?” Castiel asks, tone warm with amusement. 

“Okay, fine, I like them.” Dean admits. Castiel presses a kiss to his temple. 

“I’m glad that you feel you’re able to admit that in front of me.” 

Dean barks out a laugh. 

“What, because you consider me such a music puritan?” 

“Essentially, yes,” Castiel’s eyes crinkle at their corners. “I mean, you listen to _vinyl,_ Dean—” 

“It sounds better!” Dean protests. Castiel—very poorly—supresses a smirk. 

“Of course it does.” 

“See, this is what I mean by you patronising me.” Dean sighs pointedly. Castiel’s arms come to curl around his waist. 

“You’ve got a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets?” Castiel asks, looking at a point just behind Dean. Dean turns to his bedside table and the pile of books resting on top of it. 

“Yeah,” Dean ears heat. “—I mean, they’re actually pretty good—” 

 _“Pretty good,”_ Castiel repeats, scoffing. He kisses the top of Dean’s head. “Which is your favourite?” 

“I haven’t really picked one.” Dean admits. “Some of them aren’t even about love, though—did you know that?” 

“I did.” Castiel confirms. 

“Loads of them are just like, I don’t know—” 

“And you’re reading more Jack Kerouac.” Castiel lets out an amused breath. 

“Yeah,” Dean nods, glancing back to the table once more. 

“Is it true what Sammy said about you having such a crush on him?” 

“I mean, yeah, he was hot—” Heat begins to creep down Dean’s neck as he speaks; Castiel’s eyes seem to follow it. “—But don’t be _jealous,_ Cas—” 

“I’m not,” The angel says, perhaps too quickly, eyes flashing back up to meet Dean’s. 

“Really?” 

“I mean, firstly, I have you and he doesn’t,” Castiel laughs softly, lips hardly twitching upwards, “second of all, when your brother said _why_ you liked him so much, he said that he was just your type, and then justified it by basically describing me.” 

“That comes off a little conceited.” 

“Does it?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean. His nose is mere inches from Dean’s. “ _The dark-haired, brooding poetic type_ _; all_ _aloof—”_  

“And pretentious, yeah, that sounds about right.” Dean interrupts, grinning. Castiel doesn’t rise, but presses his lips together and grazes his nose across Dean’s. 

“Did Ezekiel ever tell you about what exactly my type is?” 

“No,” Dean admits. “He only ever said that if I wasn’t a human, you’d probably be _way_ into me—” 

Castiel brushes his nose against Dean’s again. 

“My type,” He starts softly, guiding Dean onto his back, “is the kind of person that you meet and you want to tell everything to, no matter how guarded you may have been in the past. My type is the kind of person who you meet and immediately, _desperately_ want them to feel comfortable around you; as though in the whole world there’s nowhere more comfortable than your arms. My type is friendly,” He presses a kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose, Dean is certain that he’s blushing furiously. “My type is funny—hilarious, even. Witty and dry and self-deprecating in their humour—” 

“Cas,” Dean looks down as the angel presses kiss after kiss onto his cheek and neck. 

“I’ve _always_ had a thing for green eyes.” Castiel confesses, sighing into Dean’s neck. Dean struggles to keep his breathing even. “And _your eyes,”_ He inhales Dean’s skin like it’s sweeter than oxygen. Dean can’t stop the breathy noise that escapes his mouth at this. “Are the greenest green,” Dean can feel the angel beaming into the crook of his neck. “…I like complicated people, I like people who read, I like people with pretty, intelligent, interesting features and pink lips, I like contradictory people who seem to spiral into themselves and explode out of themselves, whose personalities are vibrant and honest and brilliant, people who love things, love everything, love music and place all the meaning and sentimentality in the world into it, who sing along to music as terribly or as well as they like; I _love_ freckles and love anyone who has them, love it when they stretch down people’s necks and chests and across their noses and cheeks; I like people who somehow manage to be confident and shy, who value family and friendship above anything, who—” 

Dean drags Castiel down to kiss him. 

“ _You,_ Dean Winchester, I like _you,”_ Castiel pulls back, nearly gasping for air. “You and nobody else—” 

Dean drags Castiel down to kiss him again. He never wants this—what he has with Cas—to end. Never ever, not in a million years. 

About a half-hour of intense making out later, another knock comes at the door. The pair pull apart, gasping for air, and Dean asks what his visitor wants. 

“You said you wanted to watch a movie?” Comes Ellen’s voice from the other side of the door. Dean’s head feels giddy. 

“Uh—sure.” He nods. “Just—we’ll be down in a minute—” 

“Well, what would you like to watch?” Ellen asks. Dean can hear her sigh through the wood of his door. 

“I don’t—” He can hardly find himself able to think. He wants Castiel’s hands on his thighs, again, wants the angel’s fingers slipping under his shirt, wants Castiel to kiss his lips raw— 

“Dean?” 

“I don’t mind.” Dean answers, managing to regain himself. “Cas?” He asks, turning to the angel, who stares at him with warm, amused eyes. 

“I don’t mind, either.” Castiel answers, not breaking eye contact once with Dean. “Whatever everyone else feels like, would be fine by me.” 

A half hour later, and upon the discovery that Jo has chosen _The fucking_ _Lion King_ of all films to watch, Dean is bitterly regretting his earlier indecision.  

“It’s a good film,” Sammy frowns back at Dean. Dean glares at his brother. 

“Don’t even fucking try it.” He sits down next to Castiel, who tangles his hands immediately with the human’s. “It’s for kids—” 

“You know, some people think it’s based on Hamlet—” 

“Which is depressing as fuck—” 

“Dean,” Ellen sighs, entering the room with bags of popcorn for everyone. “C’mon.” 

“Sorry,” Dean says, trying not to sound _too_ insincere. Bobby enters the room with a couple of beers. 

“Not for you,” He frowns at Dean when he attempts to grab one. Dean makes a frustrated sound at the back of his throat, which turns into outright indignation when Bobby offers one to Cas. 

“What?” Bobby asks. “Castiel is twenty-one on what, August the third?—” 

“So?” 

“You remembered,” Castiel beams. “That’s so kind—” 

Bobby laughs warmly and hands the angel a beer, then casts Dean a pitying glance. 

“You know,” He sighs almost sadly, taking a seat next to Ellen. “I’d genuinely feel sorry for you, kid, but I can only imagine how much you drink on your own time. Your liver could do with a break.” 

“My liver’s fine.” Dean grumbles as Bobby hands his wife a beer, too, before opening his own. 

“Shh, all of you!” Jo hushes back at her family from where she sits on the floor, virtually right in front of the screen. 

“You know, Jo,” Dean’s lips are tugged upwards, “most people would consider you too old to be such a fan—” 

“It’s a classic.” She glares. “And it was between this and a chick-flick, so you should be glad I had mercy.” 

“Okay, tomorrow night, I am _definitely_ choosing the movie.” 

“Do whatever you like,” Jo wrinkles her nose. “Just be quiet.” 

Dean snorts out a laugh but pipes down. He and Castiel sit shoulder to shoulder, and eventually their heads end up resting against each other. 

“You were right, Sammy, this film really _is_ like Hamlet.” Dean states about halfway through the film. 

“You see?” 

“Apart from, y’know, the total lack of gore, the modern and definitely-not-Shakespearean language, the fact that they’re using fucking _lions_ to tell the story, not Dutch royalty—” 

“Dean, shut the hell up.” Sam grumbles, turning back to the TV. Dean barks out a laugh. 

“Okay, so tomorrow night, how about Star Trek?” 

“How about no?” 

“How about Star _Wars?”_  

“Still a no.” 

“Shut _up!”_ Jo groans, still sitting on the carpet. 

“Jo, you need to learn to speak a little more politely—” 

Jo turns and fixes Dean with what he is sure is the iciest stare that she can muster. He raises his hands in defeat and pretends to zip shut his mouth, locking it afterwards. Jo probably doesn’t mean for her expression to soften with amusement, but it does. When she turns around again, Castiel begins to nose softly at Dean’s hair. The human lets out a long contended breath, before his eyes flicker over to Ellen, who is regarding the pair with a quiet beam spread across her features, and Dean straightens up immediately, pulling out of the angel’s tangled embrace, face reddening. Castiel frowns at Dean, confused, before glancing over at Ellen, who has looked away, and is now smirking softly. 

It takes a while for Dean to feel comfortable enough to settle back into Cas’s arms. His face still stings with embarrassment for about thirty minutes after the ordeal. 

But by the end of the film, his head is on Castiel’s shoulder; Castiel’s left wing is wrapped around his body, and the angel’s fingers are grazing against Dean’s neck. Dean’s own hands run absent-mindedly through Cas’s feathers, soft and smooth as water, and he is very nearly asleep by the time the end credits begin rolling. Ellen glances back at Castiel and Dean, hardly supressing a smile again, but Dean can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed once more. He’s too tired. 

“You think you’re ready for bed, Dean?” Ellen asks, chuckling softly. Jo turns around and begins to giggle. Dean only grumbles and presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder. 

“Me and Cas are probably gonna stay down here and talk for a bit.” He replies sleepily. “You guys can go up.” 

“I’m not going to bed,” Sammy frowns. “I want to watch some TV. You don’t have a monopoly—” 

“Fine, you can stay down.” Dean groans again. He sits up properly and rubs his eyes. “But tomorrow night, me and Cas _do_ have priority. Deal?” 

“Fine,” Sammy shrugs. Dean stands and holds out his hand for Castiel, who takes it and rises also, stretching his arms and wings out as far as they seem able to go, popping his spine. Dean snorts and tugs at the angel’s hand. Cas takes the hint and follows him out the room. 

“Good-night,” He turns back to Dean’s family, waving at the door. “I’ve very much enjoyed today, thank you for being so hospitable—” 

“It’s no problem, Castiel.” Ellen beams. “Sleep well.” 

“You too,” Castiel returns. 

 _“Cas, c’mon—”_  

“Sorry Dean—” 

“Sleep well, Dean!” Ellen calls after him. Dean grumbles out a thanks and climbs the stairs. 

“Are you really that tired?” Castiel snorts lightly, following Dean. 

“You have no idea.” 

“So you’ll want to go straight to sleep?” 

“Well, I never said _that.”_ Dean replies, spinning round to face Castiel. “You’ll just have to pique my interest.” 

“Noted,” The angel’s lips play upwards as he speaks. Dean walks backwards into his bedroom, studying Castiel’s face. “I did bring condoms. And lube.” 

“You don’t need to wear a condom, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes. “We’re both clean.” 

“But cleaning spunk out—” 

Dean drags Castiel towards him for a kiss. 

“Usually,” He laughs, pulling back a moment and resting his forehead against Cas’s—his fingers have moved to play with the angel’s raven hair and slide through it as though it were mere liquid, “I’m the one having to persuade guys to wear protection, while they’re trying to convince me it’s safe. It’s weird to have the tables turned.” 

“Most guys are assholes.” Castiel shrugs. “And is weird a good thing?” 

“Weird is a great thing.” Dean laughs softly. Castiel leans forward again to kiss at Dean’s lips once more, for a sweet, fleeting moment. 

“I’m glad.” Castiel nods, eyes peering intently at Dean. It’s at moments like these that Dean has to drag his gaze away for the intensity of it all. 

“I’ve never met anybody who does sex like you do sex.” Dean confesses. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“You’re just so—” Dean sighs, struggling for words. “Firstly, you always care that I feel good, and always… I mean, no other guy that I’ve been with has cared that much, that constantly—” 

Castiel’s hands have slid into Dean’s hair and he has begun to kiss softly at Dean’s neck. 

“—Secondly, you’re always asking me if I’m up for what’s going on—and it’s so—” 

Castiel’s tongue is dragging itself across Dean’s sensitive skin. 

“—It’s good.” Dean can hardly think for the angel’s touches. He blinks sleepily. “And the way you do things, I always _am_ up for it, you know?” 

Castiel makes a humming noise against Dean’s neck. 

 “And _fuck,_ none of this is even covering the fact that you’re really good in the sack—better and more vocal about stuff than anyone I’ve ever had before—” 

Castiel’s hands have slid under Dean’s shirt. His fingers dance against the human’s skin there, and Dean’s flesh can’t help but dance in return. 

“Maybe you’re just appealing to my jealous nature, by saying that.” Castiel hums against the human’s skin. He steps forward, guiding Dean backward, before the backs of Dean’s knees hit the side of his bed and he falls backwards, Castiel on top of him, still kissing his flesh possessively. “Are you _sure_ I can’t leave any marks on you?” He asks, looking up at Dean with hungry, pleading, possessive eyes. The softest of moans imaginable escapes Dean’s mouth at the sight. 

Really, who is Dean to deny Castiel such a simple pleasure? And one that will bring Dean so much pleasure, in return? 

And _fuck,_ does Dean love the feeling of Cas sucking hard, possessive marks all up and down the delicate skin of his neck; loves the sound of the angel humming hungrily against his flesh there; loves the lust blown eyes Castiel will regard each perfect bruise forming on Dean’s skin with when his work is complete; loves how _owned_ and adored and pretty he feels afterwards, during it; loves knowing that people are _bound_ to look and know that Dean is taken, not for sharing, not anyone’s but Castiel’s. 

He licks his lips slowly and shrugs. 

“Well, I mean, if you feel like you _must…”_  

“Oh, I think I do.” Castiel continues to stare at Dean. “But how do _you_ feel, Dean Winchester?” 

Dean nearly shivers. 

“I feel—” He swallows thickly. “ _Fuck,_ like I want you, Castiel. Like I want you to do that to me—” 

“And what about your family?” 

“Fuck ‘em.” Dean shakes his head quickly, breathing utterly uneven. “I don’t care—they know we’re dating, know we’re sleeping together—” Dean watches as Cas’s lips twitch softly upwards as he listens to the human. “Are hickeys such a step? Really?” 

“You make some fair points,” Castiel hums, bending down to nose at Dean’s skin. “And who am I to deny your desires, anyway?” He asks, voice muffled against Dean’s neck. “To neglect your _needs_?” 

Needs. 

Fuck, Cas knows how to get Dean all kinds of horny. 

“And do you need it, Dean?” Castiel asks against Dean skin. Dean whimpers softly. 

“Fuck, I—” He closes his eyes when Castiel begins to suck gently at his flesh. “I—think so? I—” Cas’s hands have slid back under Dean’s shirt. “I do.” He nods, furiously. “I really do. I do.” 

“Do you have any toys?” Castiel asks. Dean’s hands move to graze through the angel’s wings. 

“Toys?” He asks, as Castiel pulls back. 

“Sex toys.” Castiel says, so frankly that Dean has to do a double take. And fuck, with anyone else he’d tell them to fuck off and stop being so damn candid, because it’s embarrassing, dammit, but with Cas, somehow it’s more arousing than anything else. Sure, he’ll laugh about it later, but right now— 

Cas’s right hand comes to palm at Dean’s crotch. 

“ _Fuck,_ Cas,” Dean nearly gasps, “in the top drawer—under the sports magazines—” 

Castiel’s laugh comes rough and soft and low, Dean shivers at the sound and presses his head back against the bed as he listens to Castiel sift through his things. Dean has no idea what it is the angel is looking for—and has stopped staring up at the ceiling and instead tilts his head up to gaze at Castiel, who finally turns around, with—fuck. 

It’s the weirdest vibrator Dean owns and he only has it because it was on sale, it’s fucking oddly shaped and has a whole bunch of settings, Dean’s used it what, maybe once? And only on his own, never with anyone else, but _fuck,_ the way Cas is looking at him while he holds it has Dean swallowing thickly and flicking his gaze away, only looking back up at the angel from underneath his eyelashes. 

He wants— _needs—_ Castiel to say something, anything, but the angel doesn’t—only looks at Dean with those possessive eyes seared with so much heady _want,_ and unbuckles Dean’s belt, setting the toy beside Dean’s head like he knows how crazy it’s gonna drive the human. And _fuck,_ it’s going to drive Dean all kinds of crazy. 

Then Castiel pulls a bottle lube out his pocket—has he had it on him the whole time? Just in the hope that a situation such as this would arise? Was he _expecting_ it? This thought has Dean shuddering again, and he raises his hips obediently as Castiel tugs down the human’s pants. 

Cas does the same thing he did the first time he and Dean fucked—he pulls down Dean’s underwear with his teeth, keeping his eyes trained on Dean’s the whole time—and _shit,_ it’s always turned Dean on, but the terrifying thought that Dean’s family could come in at any time and see Cas doing this to Dean? It makes Dean all the more horny, all the more fucking beside himself; he _needs_ Cas, needs Cas to take care of him and guide him into fucking slowly, or quickly and rough and relentlessly—whatever the angel wants, because whatever Cas wants is somehow always exactly what Dean needs, too. Dean is so lost in his thoughts of want and need that he has apparently failed to notice Castiel open the lube, nor coat his fingers in it; and is only snapped out of his own internal dialogue when Cas’s fingers ghost over him. 

“Shit—” Dean gasps, “ _fuck.”_ But it doesn’t matter how many profanities he stutters out, apparently Castiel has a plan for this to be a slow and tortuous process. 

Which, that said, it usually _is_ with Cas—the angel seems to have a thing for finger-fucking Dean as long as possible before they get onto anything close to _actual_ fucking; and Dean really ought to be used to it, or even able to fucking deal with it, by now—but he definitely isn’t. He glances at his clock about a half-hour in; Cas is showing no signs of wanting to move on with the proceedings, and Dean is having to bite down on his moans and whimpers onto his palm. 

Then, suddenly, Castiel’s fingers are pulled out of him and Dean thinks that _finally, maybe_ they’re going to go somewhere—but he nearly lets out a cry when the angel steps away to rummage in one of his bags. 

“Cas, what’re you—” 

Castiel steps back toward him with a tie. 

“What’re you gonna do with—” 

The angel answers him by gently lifting Dean’s head up, slipping the tie between his lips and tying it round Dean’s head. Dean’s eyes are wide and he has to take a deep, long breath. 

“How’s that?” The angel asks gently as Dean’s head falls back against the mattress, the knot in the tie pressing to the back of his skull. He tries to let it ground him, to remind him that yes, this is real, it’s happening, it feels good—Dean realises that he’s _really_ out of it because Castiel has to ask his question again, squeezing Dean’s hips softly. 

Dean nods and swallows thickly, not breaking eye contact with Castiel. The angel’s lips twitch upwards. He tugs Dean into sitting up only to pull off his shirt then press him back down against his mattress. 

“If you want to stop, snap your fingers twice,” Castiel says gently, nosing at Dean’s nose as his fingers trace not-so-innocent patterns across the inside of Dean’s thigh. “If you want to slow down, snap once. Do you understand?” 

Dean nods through the gag, struggling to keep his breath even for want. 

“What should you do if you want to stop?” Castiel asks. Dean moans at the angel, desperate to actually _fuck,_ but Cas seems to be having none of it. “What should you do if you want to stop?” Castiel asks again. Dean groans but snaps his fingers twice. “Good,” Castiel nods his head. “And if you want to slow down?” 

Dean snaps his fingers once. 

“Good.” Castiel nods. Dean suddenly realises that, not for the first time, he is entirely naked while the angel is fully clothed. He shivers in the vulnerable cool of his bedroom. Castiel’s hand comes to graze at his flank. “Are you ready to start going again?” Castiel asks, staring attentively at Dean, hand still stroking Dean’s side. Dean takes a deep, steadying breath, and nods his head. The angel’s lips twitch only marginally upwards, but Dean doesn’t miss it. “Perfect,” The angel nods once, voice quiet and gentle but somehow dangerous in the most delicious way possible. 

His fingers slip back inside of Dean. 

And so the torture begins again. All of Dean’s cries and moans are muffled by the tie wrapped around his mouth—and seriously, why the _fuck_ does Castiel have a tie with him?—but after a week of not seeing the angel, not getting fucked by the angel, it takes Dean an embarrassingly short amount of time to break. Silent tears have started leaking out of the corners of his eyes about an hour in; they stream down his face and into his hair as he stairs up at the ceiling; his body prickles with sweat and aches with need, and _fuck,_ that’s not even getting on to his painfully hard dick, which is currently getting no attention whatsoever and weeping nearly as much as Dean is. 

“What kind of tears are these?” Castiel asks, bending over to speak with his forehead pressed against Dean’s. “Good tears? Do you want me to stop?” 

Dean shakes his head frantically but Cas still slips the gag out of his mouth. 

“Don’t stop—” Dean finds himself begging. “Don’t—never stop, please—” 

Castiel grazes his nose against Dean’s before kissing the human’s forehead and slipping the gag back in place. 

“Understood,” He murmurs gently. And then, _fuck, finally,_ he picks up the vibrator which had been abandoned by Dean’s head. 

Dean had almost fucking forgotten about it, and how fucking weirdly it’s shaped, but he remembers now when Castiel presses it, blunt and rounded, to Dean’s body. He’s teasing Dean again, Dean knows this, doing it just because he can, but it doesn’t stop Dean’s wrecked groans or attempts at begging through the gag inside his mouth. Whether or not these words would remain incoherent even without the gag is something Dean would rather not think about; as it is, he has a good enough excuse for slurring and gasping his speech, and none of it even _close_ to English. 

The feeling of the toy, of Castiel pressing it so slowly inside of him, of how _wrong_ and alien it feels—and of course, Dean realises, that’s probably why Castiel chose it for him—has Dean nearly thrashing against the bed. Immediately Castiel’s free hand comes to pin both of Dean’s arms still above his head, and all the human can do is lie back once again and let the angel do this however the hell he wants. Once the vibrator is bottomed out inside of Dean—his body still isn’t sure of how to respond to it, moving in little spasms of pleasure and confusion around the toy—Castiel switches the vibrate setting on and _fuck. Fuck._  

Dean hardly has a moment to think about how weirdly _good_ it feels; the plug with two rounded shapes the size of fists along its body separated by two stretches of silicone the width of a fucking _penny;_ because Castiel’s mouth has moved up to Dean’s neck again and has begun sucking and licking and biting filthily along Dean’s poor, tender skin. 

He stares up at the ceiling and whimpers again, just as Castiel’s teeth come to drag along Dean’s earlobe, his tongue then moving to play with his pulse just beneath his jaw. It’s torture, delicious torture; and not knowing whether Castiel will kiss or just touch or suck or bite any stretch of skin is still more tortuous. Dean gives into all of it, not knowing where Castiel wants this to go, not knowing if he’s supposed— _allowed—_ to come or not—but whether or not the angel likes it, by the time Cas decides to turn up the setting on the plug for the second time around, Dean can’t stop himself. 

He wants to offer some kind of warning, or apologise in advance, but the gag around his mouth stops him—and anyway, even if he was physically able to, the feeling building up to Dean coming hard between himself and Castiel is wrecking enough to have his voice ripped from his throat before any warning would be utterable. 

All he can do is breath ruggedly through his nose, making startled, broken little gasping noises, because Castiel has slammed his palm to Dean’s mouth—apparently even _with_ the tie in it, Dean was being too loud. 

And fuck, he nearly laughs, did Dean just come untouched from nothing more than a vibrator and Cas sucking hot, possessive marks up and down his chest and neck? 

Dean struggles to regain his breath and can hardly glance down, totally lacking the strength to do so even if it weren’t for Castiel’s hand pressed firmly against his mouth, keeping his head back. When the angel is sure he is done; Dean’s tender cock still aching deliciously from the wonderful agony of coming untouched; he removes his hand and stands back up. Dean attempts to cry in protest of the angel leaving him, _like this,_ but Castiel only chuckles and bends over to press a delicate kiss to the tip of Dean’s nose. 

“I wish I could photograph this,” He chuckles, humming the words against Dean’s cheek as he pulls the plug tortuously out of Dean’s body. It’s some kind of perfect agony for the human. “You’re a prettier form of art than any I’ve seen in this world.” 

Despite everything, Dean’s whole body still manages to flush at the angel’s words. 

How is it that one guy can have such a hold over him? Dean isn’t given the time to tease an answer out of himself, because it turns out Cas is teasing his cock against Dean’s still-fluttering hole. 

“I wonder, would you allow me to admire your form further?” The angel asks softly, inclining his head to the side as he speaks with some kind of innocent inquisitiveness. If Dean hadn’t just had the most mind-fucking-blowing orgasm of the century, his dick would probably be jumping at the angel’s words. All he can do is nod weakly, adoring the fact that Cas still hasn’t felt the need to remove his gag. “You’re very kind,” Castiel hums, still ghosting his cock against Dean. “Very kind.” He repeats, nodding thoughtfully. 

And then, slowly and perfectly—Dean has to let his head loll back against the mattress once again—Castiel presses himself slowly inside. Dean’s eyes are nearly drooping closed with sleepiness; and Dean is tender and hurting all over and Cas is being so gentle and perfect and Dean’s slowing breath goes at the same rhythm of Castiel’s movements. 

Dean becomes glad for the gag around his mouth yet again when it stops him from confessing his undying love for the angel; instead only letting out a slurred, confused noise with Castiel’s name at the end of it. 

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel’s lips twitch upwards and he frowns quizzically at the human as he continues moving inside of him, standing at the edge of the bed that Dean is lying on, “I didn’t quite catch that?” 

Dean, grinning exhaustedly, manages to lift his hand to give Castiel a half-hearted middle finger. The angel chortles and bends back over Dean, body and wings enveloping the human, kissing more gorgeous, tender marks up and down Dean’s neck. It’s at moments like these that Dean never struggles with feeling wanted, with feeling needed. He knows it; knows he matters; knows Castiel adores him and considers him worthy and beautiful and _art,_ Dean nearly laughs again, Cas literally called him _art,_ he considers Dean to be on par with the paintings Dean finds himself spending so many hours fawning over. Castiel speeds up, slightly, moving with less gentleness, more need, and Dean’s still-tender body can only give in to every touch, every twitch and growl and grind; before Cas’s hips are suddenly stuttering into Dean’s body and the angel is gasping against Dean’s neck, biting his orgasm into Dean’s skin as the angel comes inside of him. 

Cas keeps moving inside Dean even for a little while after he’s milked himself dry, before finally, _finally_ pulling out and pressing a warm, happy-as-fuck kiss to Dean’s lips, over the tie. Then he removes it, tilting Dean’s head up gently to untie the knot that had been pressed into the mattress and pressing a kiss to Dean’s forehead as he does so, before taking it out of Dean’s aching mouth and pressing another kiss to Dean’s lips. 

“So perfect,” Castiel beams down at the human. “Fuck, you’re honestly so perfect.” 

Dean blushes and looks away and is glad that Castiel doesn’t force his gaze back to him. Instead, the angel takes the opportunity to press a tender kiss to the juncture between Dean’s neck and jaw and drag his hand deliciously up the ladder of Dean’s ribcage. 

“Was that good?” The angel asks gently, tracing spiral patterns against Dean’s shoulders. Dean swallows thickly and nods. 

“Like you said,” He rasps weakly, only just able to smile. “Perfect.” 

Castiel laughs gently and presses a kiss to the ridge of Dean’s cheekbone. 

“I’m going to get you a drink.” He murmurs. “Then clean you up.”—Dean can’t help but hum happily at the thought of being given still _more_ attention by the angel. “Stay put.” 

“Aw, shit, Cas,” Dean groans, not even bothering to look up to the angel as he speaks, but instead continuing to stare at the ceiling, which he seems to have done rather a lot of over the past hour or so. “I was literally _just_ about to go run a marathon—” 

Castiel laughs warmly and lifts Dean, moving him so that the human is resting his head on a pillow. 

“Do you think you can postpone it?” The angel asks gently, voice warm with amusement. Dean giggles—a little deliriously—and can’t even begin to think of a response. All he can do is hum when Cas drags the cool sheets over Dean's body. He hears the angel exiting, and must fall asleep, because in the next instant Cas is kneeling down beside him, fingers running with blissful delicacy through Dean’s hair, as the angel speaks his name gently. 

“Dean?” 

“Cas,” Dean beams. The angel’s features curve upwards to mirror the look perfectly. 

“I brought you some water,” Castiel states, pulling Dean’s hands gently out from under the covers, cupping them round the glass. The angel guides Dean into sitting sleepily up. Dean takes intermittent sips of water.  

“You want some?” He asks the angel. Castiel lets out a happy, affectionate breath. 

“That’s very kind of you, Dean.” He nods, taking the glass softly. He picks up something else from the floor—something warm—and slips it into Dean’s hands. “I also made you some tea. I thought you might like it.” 

Dean doesn’t even have the energy or pride left over to complain. He nods, giving a small smile, and takes a sip. Something floral and light and happy hits his nostrils, seeping his skull with warmth and sweetness, before his lips even reach the tea. 

It’s fragrant and pleasant and makes all his muscles feel loose and sugary and his mouth tastes like syrup and flowers after he’s drank the whole thing—maybe too quickly, which Castiel seems to notice, because he chuckles softly. 

“Did you enjoy that?” He asks, bending down to press a happy kiss to Dean’s forehead and clean Dean’s stomach with a hot towel the human didn’t even realise Castiel had picked up. 

“The hell did you put in it?” Dean asks, tilting his head up to the angel’s touches and closing his eyes. “Codeine? Morphine? Any other kinds of fucking opiates?” 

“It’s jasmine and honey, Dean,” Castiel chuckles, pressing a kiss to Dean’s hairline. Dean beams and lies back against the bed. The angel above him snorts and takes his cup. “But I’ll take it as a compliment that you assumed I put narcotic drugs into your drink.” 

“You should,” Dean murmurs. “It was heavenly.” 

His eyes have slid shut. He can hear Castiel getting undressed. 

“Would you like me to put something on you?” The angel asks. “Y’know, pyjamas?” 

“I’m not a fucking child, Cas.” Dean grumbles into his pillow. The angel snorts a quiet laugh. 

“No, of course not.” He shakes his head. He gets into bed on the other side of Dean, sliding his arms around the human. A kiss is pressed to the curve of Dean’s neck. Dean hums happily. 

“Glad you’re here.” He murmurs. Castiel beams into his skin. 

“I’m glad, too.” 

“Missed you.” 

“I missed you, too.” 

Dean bites his tongue to stop the next confession from escaping his lips. His stomach twists itself into painful knots, but he bites down on the need to tell Cas _everything_ that he feels for the angel. 

“I’m glad you have such a big bed,” Castiel chuckles softly. “It means there’s _so much space_ for my wings.” 

Dean laughs tiredly. 

“Glad you’re glad.” 

“Sleep well, Dean.” Castiel murmurs. Another kiss is pressed to the crook of Dean’s neck. In the next instant, he is asleep. 

 


	21. The Mess Inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: the whole upcoming chapter pretty much just discusses abuse. I promise next chapter will be happier. It'll be up next friday.

21.

  
  


Dean is sat in a seedy bar. The dark red leather on all the seats is peeled and cracked, and creaks whenever it’s sat down upon. Dean feels out of place, but in a weirdly good way—everyone in the circle he sits with is at least five years his senior; some older still, and he feels all kinds of cool to have got into a bar when he’s only just turned fucking  _ seventeen. _

“You smoke, Dean?”

“Uh,” Dean stammers, looking up from the murky, discoloured stain on the table he had been examining. “I guess, sure.”

_ “I guess,”  _ One of the girls—pretty, with long dirty blonde hair and the reddest lips Dean thinks he’s ever seen—repeats with a bemused laugh. “He’s adorable.” She beams, looking round the group, as though asking for their agreement. They only twitch their lips up softly and nod, taking drags of their cigarettes and swigs of their drinks. “You’re adorable,” She repeats, looking back at Dean, “—what did you say your name was?”

“Dean.”

“Dean,” She positively glows. Dean’s face heats but he grins back at her. Dammit, if he can keep his cool with the entire cheer team fawning over him every day, he can stay calm when an incredibly pretty twenty-something year-old flashes him a flirty smile and bats her dark eyelashes at him. “You’re cool, Dean.”

“Thanks.” He tries to return the smouldering, devil-may-care smile she flashes him.

“What else do you do, aside from smoke, ‘you guess’?” She asks, 

“Play sport,” He shrugs. “Not much, really—”

“Sport,” One of the others grins. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“The physique.”

“The physique?” Dean repeats.

“You’re hot, Dean.” The girl speaks again. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that?”

He shrugs modestly.

Of course he knows he’s fucking hot.

“ _ Fuck,  _ you know who we’ve gotta introduce this guy to?” Red starts for the first time in the conversation.

“Who?” One of the group asks.

The girl’s eyes spark with something. She sits back on her chair grinning like a Cheshire cat, brilliant white teeth set against the rubies of her lips.

“Oh,  _ I  _ know.” She beams.

“I think I do as well,” Duke’s lips twitch upwards. He ruffles his hair and downs the rest of his beer. Something about the gesture is graceful and carefree, and Dean wishes that he were the kind of person who could make such a simple motion so attractive.

“Who, Duke?” Tom asks.

“Who?” Dean frowns.

“Tell him, Duke.” The girl leans forward again, resting her elbow on her knee. She presses her lips together and stares intently at Dean.

“Oh,” Tom breaks out into a grin. “ _ I  _ know.” Smoke billows and swirls around their heads from his lit cigarette. None of the employees here seem to mind.

“Who?” Dean asks again. He tries not to frown.

“Are you into guys, Dean?”

Dean swallows.

“I’m into both,” He says slowly. The group looks pleased t this. “So this ‘who’, is a guy, then?”

“Correct,” Duke nearly leers with how wide his smile stretches. “And how do you feel about older men?”

“How old are we talkin’ here?” Dean asks.

“Oh, a few years older than us,” Duke shrugs. “But considering the fact that we’re older than you…” He trails off thoughtfully. Something about his words seems calculated. “I don’t know,” He says suddenly, shaking his head. “Maybe it was a stupid idea, maybe you’re not into that—”

“That’s cool,” Dean shakes his head. “Older is fine by me. What’s this guy like, then?”

“Oh, he’s tall.” The girl smiles and quirks her eyebrows up as she speaks. Her voice is almost oddly demure. “Do you like tall?” Dean has decided that spending his time with beautiful, young people who seem to belong in darkness and smoke and night, who speak pretty, sinful words and smile at Dean like he is prey and they are predators, is all he wants to do with the rest of his days on earth.

“I like tall.” He nods. He tries to mimic the cool, carefree exterior of Red, sat to his left. His eyes graze down to the girl’s hips, to the black velvet pencil skirt that hugs them so neatly, curling around her perfectly curved, petite frame.

“In that case, he’s  _ very  _ tall,” The girl says slowly. Her eyes flicker between Dean and the rest of the group. “And charming.” She adds, looking devilish and the picture of sexiness. Dean thinks she must know how enchanting she is. Her voice drips money. “—Oh, I almost fell in love with him, the first time we met, he was so charming.”

The group let out a collective breath of laughter. Every one of this chick’s words seem to be oozing syrup, soaked in baileys; she speaks as though each one of her sentences brings her unspeakable, sinful pleasure to say. Dean watches her scarlet red mouth form each letter. Her lips seem as though they have been stained with wine. If  _ she  _ nearly fell in love with this mystery guy when she first met him, what must he actually be like?

Dean nearly shivers as he imagines.

“Charming?” He repeats, raising his eyebrows coolly.

“Oh, yeah.” Duke nods. “Charming as  _ hell _ . And fuck, the most confident guy you’ll ever meet. You like confident?”

“I’m not averse to it.”

The whole group barks out a laugh. Thrills flutter and rush through Dean. At least he has the group’s approval, even if he doesn’t have the approval of the mysterious, charming, gorgeous guy they speak of. Well, yet. Dean is determined to win him over, too. 

The girl with red lips has a laugh that sounds like birdsong in a forest. She tips her head back gracefully, dirty golden hair tumbling over her shoulders. She almost seems too beautiful to be in a place like this, but fuck, as it is, the effect of a gorgeous, golden-skinned, golden-haired girl with ruby lips and sparkling eyes in a place as dimly lit and seedy as this place is peculiarly hypnotic, if strange.

“Oh, Alastair is going to  _ love  _ you.” She is positively radiant. “He’ll eat you up.” She shakes her head. Her eyes no longer graze over to the rest of the group, they remain fixed on Dean’s, it seems as though she is ready to devour him, with them smouldering as they are, with her lips pressed smugly together, with the way she leans forward slowly.

“Alastair?” Dean repeats. “So, that’s his name, then?”

She presses her lips together, still smiling, and nods once.

“I’ll call him,” She states, not once breaking eye-contact with Dean. “I’ll call him.” She repeats. “He’ll come.”

 

Dean doesn’t wake with a start like he normally does. This time it’s slow, like coming up for air from the bottom of a swimming pool, and it takes a moment of confusion out of water, blinking through soaking, stinging  eyes for Dean to even think to take a gasp of air, his lungs burning. He sees himself, a thousand times in replay, getting seduced in a sleazy bar by an even sleazier guy; whose hands trail up and down Dean’s thighs from the moment they are introduced, and whose words are thick and convoluted with promises of making Dean feel worthy and pretty and loveable. And Dean sees himself, or rather,  a thousand tiny versions of himself, grinning flirtatiously as an older guy offers him drink after drink, as Dean’s vision grows warm and blurry, asking Dean all about his life and interests and ambitions and complimenting him on his pretty pink mouth and wondrous green eyes. Dean sees himself preening after every compliment.

Was it the first time that Dean had gotten drunk? Like, really, truly,  _ drunk _ drunk?

Waking up, he feels sicker than usual. Mainly, however, he feels stupid and dirty and broken and sluttish.

He untangles himself from Castiel’s arms and sits up, cross-legged on the bed, picking up the glass of water Cas left beside him the night before and gulping all of it in half a second. Its contents are close to the point of being lukewarm, though not quite there; not warm, not cold. He winces. His breathing isn’t gasped, but it  _ is  _ shallow and uneven and seems to go on forever, through Dean’s nose as his mouth is clamped shut.  _ Fuck,  _ Dean was an idiot. A vain, conceited, whorish idiot.

And looking down at Castiel, now, Dean feels like an even bigger idiot than ever. Why did he think he could go into a relationship with another guy? How soon is it until he starts to fuck things up; how soon until the panics and terrors get worse and Dean can’t separate past from present, fantasy from reality? How soon until Castiel gets sick of having to look after him?

He thinks he’s going to vomit again.

He hugs his knees to his chest and stares at the wall opposite him. Is this really what the rest of his life is going to be like? Getting plagued by nightmares every week and rocking himself back to sleep, praying they won’t return when he closes his eyes again? Dean doesn’t think he can live like that; he can’t carry on knowing this is his only certain future and that there will be no recovery, will be no day where he can wake up and look back on everything that happened as though it were nothing more than a story of somebody else’s life. His forefinger traces along one of the scars on his arm. His eyes prickle. Fuck, he hates himself—hates himself for being so arrogant and cocky enough to believe that a guy like  _ Alastair  _ could actually love him, treat him like something precious and important instead of something contemptible and replaceable like a cheap, tacky vase of which a thousand replicas exist. He hates himself for convincing himself so many times over that it would get better, that it was only Dean provoking Alastair and  that the bruises underneath his ribs where no-one else could see were really of  _ Dean’s  _ doing, not Alastair’s.

Except, Dean swallows, he  _ did  _ provoke Alastair and it  _ was  _ all his fault—all the scars on Dean’s skin are of his doing, as were the bruises underneath his ribs, as was the aching between his thighs, the nightmares and the flashbacks and the constant sense of  _ never-free-never-safe  _ are of his doing also; all of this is Dean’s fault and he hates, hates,  _ hates  _ himself for all of it.

He wants to forget everything and start fresh; to wake up a four year old again with his mother telling him it was all a bad dream, everything was just a bad dream, then to sing him a lullaby or tell him a story about knights and dragons where the monsters are  _ always, always  _ overcome and the characters always find perfect happiness if they deserve it.

The problem is, Dean doesn’t deserve it.

What is it with him? Even the memory of the first day he  _ met  _ Alastair, before  _ any  _ of the bad stuff even started happening, has Dean’s head throbbing dully and his vision blurred, bile rising to the back of his throat and stinging the roof of his mouth. Why is Dean so sensitive to all of this stuff? Why can’t he just pull himself the  _ fuck  _ together?

Castiel’s hands slide round Dean’s waist. Dean can’t help but start, breathing becoming uneven again, but the angel sits up and presses a hand to Dean’s shoulder, frowning gently in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Sorry,” Dean shakes his head quickly, pulling himself away from the angel and getting off the bed, standing up. He tries to let the feeling of his feet planted on the ground, shoulder length apart, ground him—but it is of no use. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Castiel shakes his head, face still pinched into a frown as he regards Dean slowly. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Dean shakes his head. He sighs, giving in. “Bad dream.” He admits. “I’m going to go get another drink.”

“I could get it for you, if you’d like.”

“There’s no need.” Dean swallows thickly, looking away. His head feels heavy.

“Is it me?” Castiel asks gently. Dean looks back to the angel.

“What do you mean?”

“Am I the one making them worse? Your nightmares, I mean? Is it me?”

“Cas,” Dean nearly laughs, nearly cries, “I’ve been having these nightmares for a long time. With or without you. They were here long before you came,” He taps his temple with his forefinger and speaks in a droll, self-deprecating voice that helps distract him from the fact that he thinks he’s falling apart, “and they’ll be here long after you get sick of it and decide to leave.”

Castiel looks hurt.

Dean feels awful.

“I wouldn’t leave,” Cas says, almost bitterly. “Not for that. Not for anything, if I had it my way. Whatever happens is up to you. It’s always been up to you.”

_ Bullshit,  _ Dean nearly snorts— _ Dean  _ was the one who put himself so far out there with Castiel, everyday, who made himself look like an idiot, who made it perfectly and undeniably obvious that he was in love with the angel; Dean is the one who still now, is terrified of the day that Cas will get sick of him—sick of his nightmares, or sick of him for the fact that he’s not an angel—and Dean is the one who, as consequence, fights every day to ensure that Cas continues liking him, and dating him as consequence. Cas was the one who asked Dean out, he was the one in the position of power and confidence, enough so to actually  _ ask  _ Dean, knowing that  _ of course  _ Dean would say yes, how could he not? Dean is the one who loves Castiel with all his heart and cannot say it out loud, because he knows for certain that if he does, he will scare the angel away for good, Dean is the one who knows that Cas can never love him, can never  _ allow  _ himself to love him—

“No,” Dean shakes his head, “it’s not up to me, and it never has been—”

Castiel sighs.

“If you want me to go, then I’ll go,” He shrugs.

Dean has done it again.

He’s pushed Cas away, and Cas has grown sick of Dean and his self-loathing and his insecurities and how introspective he gets, Castiel is sick of Dean being broken and Cas being unable to fix him.

“I don’t  _ ever  _ want you to go—” Dean’s voice cracks. 

But what use is it in begging? 

Dean’s heart drops into his stomach: how will he tell his family that Cas has left him, and when Cas is staying in their house? 

“—Please, I’m sorry—” He stammers out, desperate, but the angel gives him an odd, steady look.

“I meant go get you a glass of water.”

Fuck.

“—Oh…”

The angel stands up and treads gently over to Dean. He pulls the human into a tight embrace. Dean crumples into it.

Cas’s arms feel so much safer than Alastair’s.

“I’m glad you think so.”

Shit.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” Dean flushes.

“I figured,” Cas shrugs. He sounds almost entertained, but there is a hollow kind of sadness that fills the angel’s voice also, and Dean wonders what it could be that has caused it. A kiss is pressed to the juncture between Dean’s jaw and neck. He shivers in the moonlight of the room. “Also, you’d be more than welcome to come down with me, but I feel you ought to know that you’re still naked.”

“—Oh—” The heat in Dean’s face creeps down his neck. He hadn’t even realised. “I’ll put—” He reluctantly pulls out of the angel’s embrace and scrambles for some clothing. “—Something—on—”

“Don’t do it on my account,” Castiel shrugs, watching Dean slowly. “I just thought you might get embarrassed.”

Dean laughs hoarsely in response.

“If you ever want to talk about it, Dean,” Castiel says gently, as Dean pulls on some underwear, “I get that you usually don’t, and that’s valid and understandable and I respect that—but if at any time, or just after a nightmare, you want to talk about what happened, I’d be more than willing to listen. And I know you might feel uncomfortable with me saying this, even now—but I’d hate to think that you feel as though you have no one to go to, or that I’d resent you for confiding in me. I really wouldn’t.”

Cas’s earnest blue eyes shimmer in the pale darkness of the room. Dean steps into Castiel’s arms again.

 

…

 

Down in the artificial light of Dean’s kitchen, Castiel sits opposite the human and listens to everything he has to say. Dean has a tendency to go off topic, to berate himself for certain details of the story he considers to be his fault, but slowly, slowly, Dean is talking.

“So then she called Alastair,” He states, as though he were reciting the plot of a story, and not the story of his own life. Castiel doesn’t point this out—perhaps distancing himself from it all is helping Dean recount these memories without too much pain being caused. “And within the hour, he was there, staring at me with all the interest in the world whenever I spoke, staring at me whenever  _ he  _ spoke—he directed everything at me. He seemed obsessed, in like, a hungry, possessive way. It gave me shivers—the good kind—I felt special and desirable, and now I feel stupid and dirty. He made it out almost as though there was nobody else with us. And we didn’t— _ y’know _ —right away. He just asked me loads of questions and made me feel important and flattered, and now I feel like an  _ idiot  _ for falling for it—”

“Don’t,” Castiel shakes his head, but Dean ignores him.

“And fuck, I wish I could go back in time and just shout at myself, y’know? Scream at myself to run, to stop being so vain and arrogant, to pay attention to what Alastair actually  _ says  _ and how convoluted and insincere it sounds instead of the flattery of all his words—he just saturated his language with prettiness to appeal to my vanity, and it worked; I—fuck.” He grits his teeth and stares at the table, not at Castiel.

The angel reaches across the table to take a gentle hold of Dean’s hand. He grazes his thumb across the ridge of Dean’s knuckles, watches as the human softens under the touch.

“Maybe we should stop doing things the way that we do,” Castiel says slowly, thoughtfully.

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, looking up and frowning.

“Sex.” Castiel says simply.

“What do you mean? I  _ like  _ how we do sex.” Dean continues to frown, a flush creeping down his neck.

“Yes, as do I,” Castiel admits, “but perhaps the power dynamics in it aren’t… helpful.” He chooses his words carefully, wincing as he speaks. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dean, but—”

“No, I’ve noticed,” Dean shakes his head, “and I  _ like  _ those power dynamics, that’s what I’m saying.”

“But I don’t think they’re helping you.”

“I’ve said it before, Cas, my nightmares have been going on a long time. None of it’s of your doing.”

“But maybe I’m amplifying them?” Castiel asks, concern and guilt worming themselves across his expression and through his heart.

He’s selfish; he’s always known this—but he’s selfish with Dean in particular. He didn’t even fucking  _ think  _ because he didn’t have to, didn’t want to—but he  _ knew _ that Dean had been in a terrible relationship in the past, and he still let himself be established as the, well,  _ dominant _ figure in  _ their _ relationship.

“It’s really not you, Cas.” Dean looks earnestly into the angel’s eyes. “Trust me?” He raises his eyebrows at Castiel.

“I’m not sure if I can,” Castiel admits. His insides feel as though they are turning to ash. He wants to cry; wants to cry for Dean and hit himself for being so thoughtless and self-obsessed, for liking the feeling of looking after the human and watching as Dean followed Cas’s instructions, for not thinking about what it meant to Dean and what it  _ really  _ meant for both of them and what it implied. He hates himself for adoring the feeling inside when Dean looked up at him through thick brown eyelashes, hates himself for falling in love with the way Dean looks when his arms are pinned behind him, the expression that covers Dean’s face when Castiel says he has to be quiet, or blindfolded, or both. Fuck, he hates himself. “This is sensitive, and you’re  _ vulnerable—” _

“Look, man, I  _ like  _ being able to give everything up. In case you hadn’t noticed. It’s nice—and it’s nice forgetting the world and just letting you take the lead. It’s nice feeling…” Dean’s ears redden. “…Looked after. It’s nice being looked after by you. And it’s  _ really  _ nice knowing that whenever I want to stop, you will—it’s nice being given so many clear pathways out, like the traffic light thing, like the snapping my fingers thing—Alastair never gave me any of that stuff. So can you please believe me when I say that it’s not you?”

Castiel presses his lips together and nods. He feels guilty, feels like the king of all dirtbags, but Dean seems pretty adamant. 

“Thank you,” Dean says, genuinely grateful. Castiel smiles grimly. “Anyway…” Dean shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Where was I?—Oh, yeah. So Alastair took this massive interest in me. Kept buying me drinks. By the end of it I was that kind—you know when normally, if you’re drunk, you’ll be able to like, maybe pretend to be sober? Even if it’s badly? The way I see it, it goes in stages—like, first, you’re just warm and tingly and happy. Then you’re giggly and maybe your head feels a little weird. Maybe you’re slurring your speech, but not too much. And these two stages, sure, your inhibitions are lowered, maybe your reactions aren’t  _ quite  _ as good as they normally are, maybe you’re laughing more than normal, but you’re still  _ fine;  _ you can still sober up if you need to. Like if there’s an emergency or if you need to act like you haven’t been drinking.”

“Right,” Castiel nods slowly, a frown pinching at his features. He isn’t sure where exactly the human is going with all of this, but of course at this point it’s best just to let Dean continue.

“And then after that, there’s the slightly rowdier stage, maybe you’re pretty horny or loud or both, and then after that, there’s like, the crying stage for a lot of people, and after  _ that,  _ you’re stumbling about all over the place and literally  _ can’t  _ act sober for the life of you, and after that there’s a really thin line between that stage and vomiting and passing out. Yeah?”

“Yes,” Castiel nods again, still staring intently at Dean. He isn’t sure what the human is getting at, but at this point it’s best to just listen.

He wonders if he should take a hold of Dean’s hand as a form of comfort at this point, or if it would just upset the human.

“Well, I was at the stumbling stage, by the end of the night. Horny and stumbling—and Alastair was dragging his hands all over my thighs and looking at me with that look that at the time made me feel so great and wanted in the most conceited way possible—I thought I was such hot shit,” Dean’s lip curls ruefully as he speaks, “—Now it just makes me shudder to think about, but—anyway, none of that stuff he was doing was helping me be any less fucking up for anything he wanted to do. And he was older than me and confident and charming and slick as fuck  and I felt so  _ wanted  _ and I’ve always had this thing about feeling wanted and feeling like I belong, ever since—” Dean looks down again and swallows. “—It was stupid. I was stupid. And then he took me back to his car and started kissing me, but I was  _ really  _ drunk and didn’t really know what was going on and I was starting to get confused and all that probably helped him, anyway, and looking back, yeah, maybe he put something into my drink—but I liked feeling wanted so I was kissing him back—and then, please don’t hate me for this, Cas, I  _ know _ I’m a whore—”

“ _ Dean,”  _ Castiel nearly cries. Dean’s face is red and his eyes seem as though they are burning with tears. He stares bitterly at a point on the table just in front of Castiel’s hands, pointedly not at the angel.

Castiel’s insides are tearing apart; he cannot stop thinking of how if anyone in the world deserved perfect peace and happiness, it would be Dean; he cannot help but die at the thought of Dean ever being used or hurt, of Dean ever feeling worthless or sad—if Castiel had it his way, the human would never feel anything less than perfect happiness and contentment, only ever be at peace with himself, and only ever consider himself a gift to this world and perfect in all his ways. Castiel bites down on all these words.

“—I sucked his dick in the front seat of his car—I can barely remember it—I can remember his hand in my hair and not being able to breathe but sort of liking it and being too drunk to care anyway—and then he drove me home. He kissed me on the front porch like in those movies. And we weren’t even dating—it took  _ ages  _ for us to be even dating, before then it was just random hooking up and meeting up and meeting up with him and his friends and him getting me to do shit I didn’t feel great about, but him complimenting me all the time and manipulating me, looking back, that’s what he was doing, he was manipulating me and I was an idiot not to see it, but I… I didn’t pick up on the warning signs.” Dean lets out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “And I was in with this really cool crowd, you know?  _ Alastair’s _ crowd, and they were edgy and took me out to places and Alastair didn’t mind me hanging out with  _ them _ , only my normal friends, so naturally I isolated myself from everyone I  _ should’ve  _ trusted, turned to, confided in, been spending my time with… I basically cut myself off from my friends, family—obviously that was Alastair’s intention; he  _ knew _ what he was doing and how it would effect me and my relationship with him and what I thought of him…” Dean sighs, looking down. “I’m tired, Cas, I’m sorry. Can we go to bed?”

Castiel looks at Dean, mouth pressed tightly shut. His eyes burn and he finds he cannot say  _ anything.  _ He nods his head twice, a lump caught in his throat. He cannot even swallow, let alone speak.

“I’ll… make you some more tea, if you’d like?” He finally manages to rasp out. Dean’s entire frame softens. He looks at Castiel with half of what Castiel thinks he feels for the human, but it is enough to have the angel’s head reeling and his heart singing.

“Thanks,” Dean’s only slightly comforted smile is so small it is hardly noticeable. “…For—for the record, Cas? You’re not anything like him.”

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards into a half-hearted smile.

“I mean it,” Dean shakes his head. “You’re nothing like him. I—I never thought I’d be able to date a guy again. I guess you proved me wrong.”

Castiel stands and pulls Dean into his arms.

He never wants to let go.

He wants to tell Dean he loves him, wants to tell Dean he’s sorry for everything that happened to him and reassure him that if anybody deserved all the wonders of the world, it would be Dean.

He can’t confess the former. He states the latter. Dean laughs softly in his arms.

“I’m sure a lot of people deserve a lot of wonderful things in the world,” Dean points out. Castiel presses his nose into the human’s hair and breathes in the scent; the scent of cars and hot showers and shampoo cinnamon and that bright, electric smell before rain. “And I get  _ you _ , which is honestly the most wonderful thing I can think of, so.”

Castiel laughs softly and presses his face into Dean’s neck.

“So?” He repeats.

“So there.” Dean finishes. Castiel’s heart feels so tender that it actually  _ hurts. _

“I adore you.” He murmurs against Dean’s warm, soft, sweet-smelling neck. Dean lets out another hoarse chuckle.

“And I, you.” He pats the angel on the back. “C’mon, how about that tea you promised me?”

Castiel chortles again. He is so constantly amazed by Dean. He says as much. He still doesn’t say enough.


	22. I Love You. Let's Light Ourselves On Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 22 - this is slightly longer than many of the others. Call it my treat.
> 
> Sorry this one took a while - I've been balancing writing three stories at the moment, which is a bit of a handful! Please check the other two out if you haven't already!

Ellen organised for Cas to meet up with, and intern for, one of her publisher friends. Dean has been helping Bobby in the garage all day, his skin smells like oil and metal and grit and his mind has been wonderfully clear all day—as it always is, when he's been fixing things, cars especially.

What is it about them? Maybe the way that they reassure him: Dean is good at fixing broken things, no matter how bad they get. It gives him hope—maybe one day, Dean will be fixed, too. Maybe he'll find somebody who could fix him the way he fixed up machines. Maybe Dean can fix himself.

He comes back from work before Cas did—he finds himself slightly relieved; it at least meant that his family didn't get to torment the guy in Dean's absence. Instead, they'll just got to torment _him._

"How was work, honey?" Ellen asks as he scrubs his face tiredly with his hands, entering the kitchen. He didn't get a good sleep last night. His skin prickles at the memory. Any day now, Cas is going to get tired of him. Any day now. "You look kinda sleepy—didn't get much rest last night?"

Dean looks up at her and flushes. Ellen snorts.

"Not like that," She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. Dean rolls his eyes.

"Nightmare." He replies honestly. "Again."

Ellen's face has fallen.

"Again?" She asks, faltering with what she was doing. She's making burgers, from scratch, probably all because of how Dean told her how much Cas likes them, and any other time Dean would laugh and pull her close into a hug and tell her how ridiculous she is and how great it is that she puts so much love and effort into everything she does. Now he just feels tired, and he really doesn't want to have this conversation. When will he be fixed? When will he be like the cars that Dean spends so many hours caring for and repairing and polishing until they shine like new?

He's at least thankful for the fact that Ellen has been handling raw meat to make the patties and that she can't pull him close for a bone-crushing hug, right now. Or _is_ he glad about it? Honestly, he kind of feels like he _needs_ a hug—he'd been fine at the garage, head clear and calm, and on his walk home he'd been feeling okay—good, even. Is it this house, his own home that's doing this to him? Is it the memories he has, here? Or the memories he has of being broken, lying in bed, shuddering in the night? Or the memories of him waking up in a cold sweat, going to cry in the bathroom or back yard? Maybe it's the memories of his trying to sear his own skin off in hot showers so that he'd feel clean, new again. Maybe it's everything.

Apparently he took too long in answering Ellen's question. The next thing he knows is that tears are streaming down his face and Ellen's arms are wrapped around him, regardless of how messy they are from handling raw meat.

"What if he leaves me?" He manages to sob out around the lump that has formed in his throat. "What if he's sick of it, sick of how broken I am—"

" _Dean,"_ Ellen hushes, but it doesn't work.

"What if he thinks I'm broken? What if he looks at my scars, and they're all he can see? He must think I'm so _ugly—"_

"Dean, please never think that way—"

"I can't help it, Ellen," Dean bites into her shoulder. "Al _broke_ me, I'm _broken—_ I never used to cry like this, now I feel like doing it every day, I'm not what I used to be—"

"You're not broken, baby," Ellen rocks Dean as she stands. He ought to feel patronised, but he can't. "You're not broken." She repeats. "And as for ugly—clearly you haven't seen the way your Castiel looks at you. But _I_ have. He doesn't think you're broken, or ugly, how could he?"

"How could he _not?"_

"One day, I pray you'll see yourself the way we do." She hushes. She presses a kiss to Dean's hair, then pulls away—Dean thinks that's it, that she's given up on comforting him, but she turns around to wash her hands then hugs Dean properly, fingers trailing through his hair. Dean sniffles into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," He chokes out, "I'm a burden—"

"You're my _son."_ She shakes her head. Dean sobs again. Ellen starts rocking him softly, once again. "...You know, even as a little boy, you were so brave and so kind—"

"I'm not brave—" Dean shakes his head, fresh tears swarming onto his face. He wipes at his nose. "I'm not kind—I'm selfish and dirty and—"

"I used to come round to Bobby's to help him out with you," Ellen interrupts, "just after John and Mary died. And you'd be sat in Sammy's crib, arms wrapped around him, staring up at the world with those big green eyes. You wouldn't let _anyone_ touch him, it was ridiculous— _you_ had to be the one to change him, to feed him, all of it. Nobody else. You thought any one of us might hurt him, and so you stood between the rest of the world and him. The whole world against a four year old? Now tell me, if that ain't brave, what is?"

"Ellen, I was a _kid_ —"

"Nuh-uh." Ellen shakes her head. "I don't wanna hear it. Do you know what you did after Jo was born?"

"I can remember, you don't need to tell me—"

"Clearly, I do," Ellen shakes her head again, squeezing Dean's body tight to hers. "When that big dog came up to her and started barking and snarling in her face?"

"—Yeah, I don't know why she likes animals so much, now—"

"And you were the same height as this dog, Dean, the same damn height—and you ran up to it and shouted at it until it ran away—"

"It ran away because it saw you guys coming—"

"A big, scary, angry, dog, Dean. But you didn't care—you only cared about _Jo—_ "

"Ellen—" Dean has started sobbing again.

"You always cared about them more than you did yourself. It's the same with everyone you love. Cas can see that, of course he can—"

"But he can see how broken I am, too—"

"Kid, love is looking at someone's scars, and choosing not to walk away. I know better than most."

"Cas hasn't…" Dean sniffles into Ellen's shoulder.

"Hasn't what?"

"He hasn't said he loves me." A cloud hangs heavy over Dean. He chokes these words out, and as he does so, his skin burns with shame. Why _would_ Cas love him? Why should Dean have _expected_ Cas to love him? "He doesn't love me… He's going to leave—"

Ellen pulls back, hands on Dean's shoulders. Dean ducks his head, ashamed of the tears rolling down his face.

"Whether he stays or not, Dean, you still deserve happiness."

"See?" Dean groans, "You're just preparing me for the damn _day_ he gets sick of me—"

"You didn't let me finish, kiddo." Ellen shakes her head, glaring at Dean but still squeezing his shoulders affectionately. "He hasn't walked away yet, has he?" She asks. Dean shakes his head, still staring at the floor. "And he's seen you, all of you, seen your nightmares, seen your past—or at least, seen parts of it. He's seen you when you're shy, seen you when you're confident. He _knows_ you. He's still here, holding on pretty tight, from what I can tell. You love him?"

" _Ellen—_ " Dean flushes.

"Well, it doesn't matter, anyway." She shakes her head, easing up on Dean. "You know, Bobby took _two years_ to tell me he even _liked_ me? Two years to be asked on a date, Dean—that's a long waiting time."

"But Bobby is Bobby," Dean shakes his head, snorting out a teary laugh despite himself.

"And Cas is Cas," Ellen says, softly. "And I don't know Castiel like you do, I can't pretend to be even _close_ to that. But I waited two years to be asked out by Bobby; another year for him to say he loved me, then two _weeks_ later he came in with a ring and said he wanted to marry me." Dean laughs around his tears again. "People are weird," Ellen says softly. "There is no 'right' order, or speed, to do things in. It doesn't work out like that. Cas might be taking his time. He might be scared—he might just be plain stupid and stubborn, like Bobby is." She wipes away Dean's tears. "But not only is Cas prepared to stay with you through your nightmares and recovery, he _wants_ to. That looks an awful lot like love to me. And Cas don't really seem the type to give love out to people who don't deserve it."

Dean presses his face into Ellen's shoulder.

"I love you, Ellen…" He murmurs into it, face damp and hot.

"I love you too, kid." She smiles softly, hand running softly through the hairs at the base of his neck.

"No, I really mean it." Dean shakes his head. "—I—I don't know what I did to deserve you—"

Ellen laughs. It seems as though her eyes have glazed over.

"I think the same thing about you kids, believe me. Now, go," She taps Dean's arm. "Have a drink, get that sad taste outta your mouth, then go shower. You'll feel better for it."

"Thanks, Ellen." Dean wipes his eyes.

"No, it's fine." She shakes her head. Dean gets a drink then makes his way to leave, but Ellen calls him to stop before he can. "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Have _you_ said that you love him, yet?" She asks. Dean flushes, face hot again.

"No—I, uh—I'm too scared to." He admits.

"Maybe you should." Her lips twitch upwards softly. "Maybe that's all it'll take, just you putting yourself out there, being honest. It's not a big deal."

Dean disagrees entirely.

"What if he says he doesn't love me, though?" He asks, face lining with worry.

"What if he says he _does?"_ Ellen returns.

Dean had hardly considered this possibility. _Could_ Cas love him? Ever?

"Go shower, Dean," Ellen smirks, probably at Dean's lost expression. "I'll call you down when Cas gets back."

…

Dean's house smells _amazing_ when Castiel returns to it. He breathes in, long and deep, after opening the door. _Burgers._ God, he loves Dean's family.

He walks into the kitchen to see Ellen toasting the buns—seriously, Dean was right when he said her cooking was perfection—and she turns round after hearing him enter, smiling gently.

"Hello, Castiel," She greets warmly. "How was your day?"

"Really great, thank you," He laughs out honestly. "I feel I owe you a big thanks for that, in particular—"

Ellen waves him off and beams.

"How was your day?" He asks. He still feels oddly nervous around Dean's parents, just as he does with Jo and Sam, even if he's starting to ease up a bit. He so badly wants to gain their approval, to prove himself worthy of Dean and his affections.

"It was, uh—" Ellen seems a little distracted. "Yeah, it was good, I think, thank you. Overall, at least."

"Oh dear," Castiel frowns, "only overall?"

Ellen lets out a warm laugh. It reminds Castiel of Dean. He beams, unintentionally, at the sound.

"You're a sweet kid, Castiel." She shakes her head.

"Thank you," He laughs.

"That probably came off a little patronising," Ellen titters, "and I didn't mean it to."

"That's fine," Castiel smiles, though he doesn't know what at. "Can I help you with anything?"

Ellen beams, pointing him to the fridge.

"Could you make up a salad? Thank you so much, Castiel. Everything will be in the bottom drawer."

Castiel nods and grabs everything he thinks he'll need, Ellen pointing him over to a board for chopping.

"Wish my own kids were as helpful as you," She jokes. Castiel suppresses his smirk.

"I feel as though I couldn't possibly comment on that without being a _terrible_ boyfriend to Dean."

Ellen bursts out laughing.

"You're awfully good to him."

Castiel flushes.

"I can't tell if that was sarcastic—"

"It was sincere."

"Then thank you—" Castiel stammers out, ears hot. "—Honestly, I don't think I'm good _enough,_ I feel as though he deserves the world—"

"You two are way too alike for you own good," Ellen titters. "Always worrying, always obsessed with being 'good enough', of being worthy. Both of you. It's terrible."

"He worries he isn't enough?" Castiel asks, frowning.

"And there you go again," Ellen teases.

"There I go again, what?"

"Worrying."

Castiel laughs nervously.

"Yeah, I guess it's a force of habit…"

"Pretty bad habit, if you ask me." Ellen muses. "Though one all big brothers seem to share—at least you two, in particular. Thank you, sweetie," She beams at Castiel when he's finished.

"That's no problem." He shakes his head. "Where _is_ Dean?" He asks.

"Upstairs. Showering. He got back about," She glances at the clock on the wall, "I don't know, ten, twenty minutes ago?" Something has changed in her voice. "He'll be down, soon enough."

"Oh," Castiel nods, frowning softly. "Okay."

"You do him good, though, Castiel," Ellen says softly. Castiel flushes and thanks her. "I'd been so worried, after everything that happened," She shakes her head, tidying up around the kitchen. Castiel does the same. "I thought…" She worries at her lip. "I don't know, I guess I thought like he did. That he'd never trust again. That he never _could..."_ She looks up at Castiel. "I'm glad I was wrong."

Castiel doesn't know how to reply. He can only nod, staring earnestly at Dean's mother.

"I'm glad, too." His voice cracks in his throat.

Dean enters the kitchen, wearing a loose band tee, almost threadbare with age, dark jeans, and odd socks. His hair is still wet from the shower, sticking out at awkward angles and dark with water. Castiel beams at the sight of him. He can't help it. His heart is starting to ache, but in a delicious kind of way that has him wanting _more._ He wants to memorise Dean. All of him.

"Looking good, Dean," He grins over to the human. Dean's face lights up.

"You think?" He laughs, raising his eyebrows at Castiel.

"Definitely."

"Thanks Cas," Dean grins, winking at the angel before making his way over to Castiel and wrapping his arms around Castiel's frame. Castiel makes a noise of surprise against the human, but returns the hug, realising that this is something he wanted to do, too, and pretty desperately—if the feeling in his gut is anything to go by. "How was your day?"

"Good, thank you," Castiel nods, frowning softly. His hands trace absent patterns on Dean's back, keeping him close, even after Dean pulls out of the hug. "How was yours?"

"Long." Dean laughs honestly. "Not bad. Just long. I'm tired."

"Early night, then?" Ellen suggests—Dean jumps and reddens, pulling out of Castiel's arms as though he had forgotten that his mother were present.

"Uh," He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously, "I guess that sounds like a plan…"

Jo bounces into the room.

"Are we having _burgers?"_

"We are," Ellen confirms, chuckling. "Set the table with your brother, would you?"

Jo grumbles, but she and Dean do as they are asked. Ellen calls for Sam and Bobby, wherever they are, saying that dinner's ready, and if they want to eat tonight, they'd better be in the kitchen in the next minute.

"Dean," Jo grins, pointing at a place on Dean's neck, to the right of, and a little above, his Adam's apple, "what's _that?"_

Dean frowns and lifts his fingers to the spot Jo pointed to. Sam walks into the room. Dean hisses from where he stands—apparently he'd touched the spot too hard, and winces in pain. Ellen snorts from behind Castiel. The angel makes eye-contact with Dean, his face heating furiously. Dean's is doing the same, judging by the redness of his ears.

"What's what?" Sam asks, stepping towards Dean, then grinning widely, obviously suppressing his laughter. Dean bats away both Sam and Jo. "Is that a _hickey,_ Dean?" He asks, laughing. "Did Cas give you a lovebite?" He turns to snort with laughter in Castiel's direction. The angel bristles and reddens still more.

"Um—" Castiel stammers out. If Ellen didn't think Cas was a sleaze before, she definitely will now. Castiel is a damn possessive bastard, dating someone two years his junior, who's had _enough_ bad experiences dating as it is, without needing cold, awkward, stubborn, selfish Castiel to ruin his life any further.

"Look, he's got another here!" Jo exclaims, finger poking at a point just above his left collarbone. Dean grimaces and swats at her.

"Jeez, Dean, how old are you?" Sam asks, grinning. "I thought you were _out_ of high school!"

Dean grumbles, face pink.

"Kids, leave him alone—" Ellen starts, but she hides a smirk as she speaks.

"That makes Cas worse, you know!" Jo exclaims. Castiel's face heats a little more. "He's _two years_ older than Dean, at least Dean is only a freshman—"

"Not any more, he's not." Sam points out.

"Okay, fine, but Cas is _still_ worse—"

"Is it worse to give or receive, do you think?"

"Give, definitely."

"Kids," Ellen says, a little more firmly, this time. "Sit your asses down. And leave your brother and poor Castiel alone—last night was their first night after not seeing each other for—"

Dean sits at the table, looking at its surface rather than anybody else. He looks distressed. His face is red.

"Ellen, _please,"_ Dean groans helplessly. "Just stop,"

"Stop what?" Bobby asks, entering the room.

"You took your time, old man," Ellen rolls her eyes. "Here, take this over to the table."

"What are you guys talking about?" Bobby asks again, making his way over to the others. Ellen pushes Castiel gently towards the table—he hadn't even realised that he'd stood, rooted to the spot, unable to move, more awkward than he'd ever felt before, which is really saying something, all things considered.

"Dean's got hickeys all over him," Jo grins.

"I've got _two,_ on my neck," Dean corrects, scowling.

"Wait, is that another one there?" Jo points, and Sam bursts out laughing, uncontrollably. Ellen pushes Castiel into the seat next to Dean. He's certain he's never been so red faced in his entire life.

"It _is!"_ Sam exclaims.

"We think Cas gave them to him," Jo grins matter-of-factly up at Bobby. The man only smirks.

"Well, I'd hope so, too," He chuckles. "Otherwise Cas has got some _serious_ talking to do to Dean."

"Bobby, shut up," Dean squirms in his seat. Bobby chuckles as Ellen sits down, bringing the last of the food over and laying it on the table.

"Dean, you're too easily embarrassed." Bobby smirks. "You're young, and sharing a room with your boyfriend, who you hadn't seen for a week—what did you _think_ we'd guess you'd be doing?"

Dean seems tempted to throw his plate at Bobby.

"Don't give your father that look, kiddo," Ellen shakes her head, putting food on everyone's plates.

"Tell _him_ not to embarrass me so much." Dean glares. Bobby chokes out a laugh at Dean's expression, eyes watering. "God!" Dean exclaims, scowling at Bobby.

"Sorry, Dean, we'll move on," He shakes his head, biting down on a smile. Castiel notices that Ellen is doing the same.

"So how was your day, Bobby?" Ellen asks.

Bobby shrugs. "Dean worked hard. Always does—customers always ask after him, now. " He smiles softly over to Dean, who rolls his eyes at the attempt of peacemaking. "Let him off early, he did so well."

Ellen turns to beam at Dean.

"That's good," She nods encouragingly. "Well done, Dean—"

"It's fixing cars, Ellen," Dean seems to be blushing for a whole different reason, now, but the ghost of a smile still stretches his features, even if he sinks a little into his seat out of modest embarrassment. "...It's not exactly _hard,_ it's pretty simple, really—"

Castiel finds Dean's hand under the table. The human stops speaking, cheeks pink. He doesn't stop smiling.

"I can't do it," Sam points out. "I don't understand _any_ of it."

"Think our brains are wired a little differently, Sammy," Dean mumbles. " _I_ don't get half the stuff _you're_ good at—"

"Well, if you ever get sick of architecture," Bobby chuckles, "remember that you can always come and work for me."

" _For_ you?" Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows.

"What would _you_ call it?"

"I don't know, but working _for_ my old man sounds pretty tedious—"

"Not _that_ old—" Bobby frowns indignantly.

"Bobby, yesterday you pronounced Wi-fi as wiffy." Sam points out, utterly deadpan. Everyone bursts out laughing. Castiel begins to ease up again.

"Did he?" Jo asks through her giggles, obviously delighted.

"Yeah," Sam nods, grinning now. "It was like, last week, when he took me to look around UCLA—we were in a diner, and he was trying to look up what law would be like, there—and I don't know, I think it was one of those places where you had to pay for it by the hour, or something? But he got really pissed off—"

Ellen rolls her eyes at Sam's cursing, but doesn't interrupt.

"—And he was like, ' _I refuse to pay for wiffy'_ —" Sam does an almost eerily perfect impression of Bobby, at this, and the table breaks out into fits of laughter again.

"So really Bobby, you're not just an old man, you're also a _grumpy_ old man," Dean grins, winking at Bobby.

"Shuddup, hickey-boy," Bobby scowls. Jo and Sam seem unable to control their laughter, while Ellen manages to bite down on her own. Castiel finds himself chuckling softly, despite everything.

"Cas, what right do _you_ have to laugh?" Dean glares at Castiel, which makes Bobby, Jo, Ellen and Sam break out into _more_ laughter. "It's your fault we're in this mess!"

Tears have started leaking onto Sam's face.

"Fuck, Dean, calm down—you take things too seriously—it's not exactly the apocalypse, is it?"

" _It's your fault we're in this mess,"_ Jo puts on a gruff voice and frowns, doing a _hilarious_ impression of her brother, " _shut up, Cas! Dammit, Cas!"_

Castiel can't help his laughter at this. Neither can Dean, apparently, who first smiles good-naturedly, rolling his eyes, then breaks out into a fit of reluctant giggles.

All Castiel can think of is how much he likes each and every member of Dean's family. All he can do is pray they like him just the same.

…

"You guys _came!"_ Ezekiel beams, practically hurling himself into hugging Dean, Cas and Rachel. They've only just managed to pull their luggage out of Dean's car, and haven't even been given the chance to take in their surroundings—the house itself is blocking their view of the sea, but Dean can hear it, smell it, taste it on the air; the sun beats off the pale stones of the drive; only wisps of clouds scatter across a shimmering blue sky.

"Of course we did," Dean frowns, squeezing his friend back. "You think I'd pass up an opportunity for a free—"

Ezekiel ruffles Dean's hair—maybe a little too hard—and wrinkles his nose.

"I've missed you, little dude."

"Zeke, don't call me that—I mean, we're the same _height—"_

"And Cassie, too! Just like old times!"

"Old times?" Castiel raises his eyebrows at Ezekiel.

"Yeah, it feels like a _year_ since I last saw you—"

"You have an incredible talent for exaggeration," Castiel comments amusedly—but Ezekiel ignores him and pulls his roommate close for what Dean observes quietly must be a bone-crushing hug.

"And Rachel! How was your journey here?"

"Long," Rachel rolls her eyes.

"Well, yeah, you drove." Ezekiel points out. "Why would you make it a _road trip?_ Must've been murder—"

"Alright, Zeke, not all of us can afford to just _book a flight_ at a moment's notice—"

"I'm not sure that's the _only_ reason you chose not to fly, Dean," Ezekiel pulls an unconvinced face at the human, but Dean swats at the angel and pulls an as unamused expression as possible. Asshole. "Anyway, you need help with your bags?"

"I think we're doing okay, buddy."

"Then do you wanna come inside?"

"No, actually, I thought I'd sleep out here, tonight—"

"I swear, Dean, you get more sarcastic every time I see you. _Jesus._ Come inside."

Dean grins and follows his friend inside the house. Everything about its interiors is pale: white, cream and light blue pervade everything, white being chief among these. It's strange to see Ezekiel in such an environment; everything seems clean and sterile—not in an uptight, neurotic way—just kind of… bland, for want of a better word, Dean thinks to himself. And it's not that it's not nice—everything here is gorgeous—it's just not _Ezekiel,_ and Dean is starting to understand what the angel meant when he said that he _really_ _didn't_ fit in with his family.

"So my parents are out for the day, playing golf or some shit—"

Dean tries, and fails, to stifle a snort as Ezekiel speaks, leading them into the kitchen.

"Mother of fuck," Dean gapes as he enters.

"What?"

"This is so fucking _nice—"_

Ezekiel grunts.

"It's alright."

"I can see the _sea."_

"Well, yeah," The angel frowns. "This is a _beach house."_

"It's on your fucking _doorstep."_

"A little further than that, I think, actually. Can I get you guys a drink?"

"Water, please." Rachel smiles.

"Well, fuck," Dean grins, "what do you have? Liquid diamonds?"

"Water, or juice." Ezekiel deadpans, pushing Dean lightly. "Fresh out of liquid diamonds, sorry, man."

"That sucks," Dean winces. "Do you have any beers? Are your parents okay with me and Rachel drinking?"

"Unless they ask about it, I won't tell them." Ezekiel shrugs. "And even then, I'm not sure that they'd care. They don't care about much. At least we're doing it somewhere safe."

"Nice—so you have beer?"

"Not just beer," Ezekiel grins. "But rum, too."

"Rum?"

"It's a pirate drink! We're by the sea!"

"You're a fucking kid."

"Yeah, I've heard it be said." Ezekiel teases, giving Rachel her water, and handing Dean a beer. "Cas, what about you?"

"I think I'm good, for now," Castiel smiles absently at Ezekiel.

"Great. In that case, I'll show you guys to your rooms, and then you can put your bags down," Ezekiel drums happily on the marble island counter. "And then what do you guys wanna do? Go for a swim? Watch a film? Chill and catch up?"

"All of those sound good," Dean chuckles. "But maybe unpack?"

"Nope, unpacking is _boring._ Do it later. I've missed you guys!" Ezekiel exclaims. "And your guided tour is starting now, so there's no room for argument. Dean and Cas," He starts, leading the three friends back down the hall, "your room is here. Are you okay with sharing?" He asks, winking and opening the door.

"I think we'll live," Dean deadpans. "Very funny, though, 'Zeke."

"Thanks," The angel grins so widely his eyes crinkle shut. "Drop your bags in there. How do you like it?"

"It's uh—" Castiel peers into the room as Dean steps inside, dropping his stuff beside the bed. " _Really_ nice, thanks, 'Zeke."

"See, what I think would be really entertaining is if all four of us went to stay in some shitty little house with no electricity or running water, and it was maybe haunted and just generally really crappy—but instead we all have to stay here and everything works perfectly and we can't make jokes about the shitty pipe system or the ghosts in the bathroom or how cold we are at night." Ezekiel slumps, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I'm really disappointed about that, too, buddy." Dean grits his teeth and grimaces over to his friend. "But at least we're all going through this together, right?"

Rachel giggles from behind Ezekiel.

"Rachel, don't mock me," Ezekiel frowns. "Your room is here," He points to the room opposite Dean and Castiel's. "My room is down there, to the left," He points, "if any of you need anything."

"Thanks, 'Zeke."

"It's no problem," Ezekiel shakes his head. "Honestly, I'm just so glad you're here. I was losing my damn mind on my own."

"You weren't on your own—"

"You haven't met my parents yet."

"And I refuse to believe they're that bad."

"Cas, I can't wait to see you get proven so fucking wrong—"

"God, guys," Dean rolls his eyes.

"Fine." Ezekiel grumbles. "Do you want to go swimming or something? Did you bring stuff for swimming? _Can_ you all swim?"

"I'm on the swim team," Cas frowns. "You _know_ that."

"I was only checking," Ezekiel grins. "Anyway, I could meet you all outside in like, ten minutes, if you'd like."

"That sounds good." Rachel smiles, turning to leave, entering her own bedroom.

"Cool." Ezekiel nods. He turns to leave as well. "I really am glad you guys are here," He speaks earnestly round the doorframe, and this time, Dean doesn't feel the pressing urge to laugh. "I missed you."

"We missed you, too." Dean returns. Ezekiel snorts and shakes his head. "I mean it, idiot," Dean grins, tossing his bag onto the bed. "Thanks for inviting us—it's beautiful, and it's awesome of your parents to say that we could stay—but really, it could've been anywhere, we would've come."

The angel grins from the doorway.

"You're adorable."

"You're a dick."

"See you in ten."

"Not if we see you first."

Ezekiel closes the door behind him, and Dean turns back to Castiel, who is rummaging through one of his bags, looking for his swim trunks.

"You think 'Zeke's parents are really gonna be all that bad?" He asks. Cas glances up, the flicker of a smile gracing his features.

"I don't know," He shrugs. "Could be? Or it could be Ezekiel exaggerating, which to be fair, wouldn't be the first time." Dean laughs at Cas's words. The angel grins. "But either way, I can't wait to meet them."

"Same here," Dean cannot hide his amusement. He sits cross-legged on the bed and filters through his belongings. "But by the way, why is it that you've never met them before? You've literally been Ezekiel's roommate for three years, in case you'd forgotten."

"I know I have," Castiel's amused, affectionate smile is hardly noticeable. It still makes Dean's insides flutter. As if noticing this, Cas reaches out and trails a warm, tender hand through Dean's hair. Dean beams at the touch, leaning up into it. "God, you're like a cat," Cas laughs, bending to kiss Dean's forehead. Dean wrinkles his nose and bats the angel away, while Cas laughs warmly. "Anyway, no, I hadn't forgotten. Rooming with Ezekiel isn't something people tend to forget."

"Then why don't you move out? Why've you _never_ moved out?"

Castiel bursts out laughing.

"I don't know, I kind of love him?" He shakes his head. "I annoy him as much as he annoys me, too, and _he_ hasn't moved out. I think he's like a brother. And do you really believe I'd get along better with _anyone else_ I was living with?"

Dean grins and shakes his head.

"And anyway," Cas's hand wanders into Dean's hair, once more. "We're leaving out one _massive_ pro of me rooming with Ezekiel."

"Which is?"

"If it hadn't been for me living with him, I wouldn't have met you." Cas positively beams. Dean flushes, rolling his eyes, grinning widely.

"You're the worst." He shakes his head, pink-faced. "I never took you for a romantic."

"Only with you." Cas bends down to kiss the side of Dean's face, still hot.

"So, back to my original question," Dean decides to change the subject; the shade of red he feels he is turning is far too reminiscent of the first few months he knew Cas, "why haven't you met 'Zeke's parents?"

"I guess he never wanted me to," Cas frowns. He begins unpacking again. "Whenever either of us would come back from the holidays, he'd always either be there before me, or come alone. I don't know what it is. On the day Ezekiel and I first met, I think I saw them from a distance, but that's about it."

"Really? What did they look like?"

Cas finds his swim trunks and begins to change.

"Um, pretty normal, I think? But on, like, the boring side of normal, I guess Ezekiel would say."

"Right." Dean smirks. "But only normal?"

"What do you mean by 'only' normal?" Cas repeats, squinting at Dean.

"Cas, look at this place," Dean gestures all around him. "Ezekiel's parents must be loaded. I didn't think accountancy paid that well?"

"Maybe they're pretty high up in their respective companies? I actually think Ezekiel said something like that, once—one of them definitely works in a fancy company—"

Dean presses his lips together. Castiel raises his eyebrows at the look.

"You don't believe him? You think they're in the mafia, or something?"

"I never said the mafia," Dean rolls his eyes. "I just think—I don't know, maybe his family is really rich, or something? It _must_ be inherited."

"So what's your point?" Castiel squints at Dean.

"How come he never talks about it? How come I know _nothing_ about 'Zeke's family, and I'd count him as one of my best friends?"

"I guess he just doesn't like talking about it," Cas frowns. "I mean, can you imagine him wanting to show off about any of this stuff? Because I can't."

"I guess." Dean sighs.

"Are you going swimming or not?" Cas asks, smirking down at Dean and picking up his towel.

"I am," Dean gets up and begins to change. He notices Cas's eyes trained on him as he pulls of his T-shirt, a possessive smirk playing at the angel's lips. "And stop ogling."

Cas barks out a laugh. "Ogling?" He repeats.

"You heard me," Dean wrinkles his nose as Castiel crosses the room. "Don't," He laughs, when Cas wraps his arms around Dean's body. "Ezekiel gave us ten minutes," He grins as Castiel presses his face into Dean's neck and breathes deeply, like he wants to devour Dean. "Which is nowhere near enough time to do _anything,_ and aside from everything else, us making out right now would be kinda anti-social."

Cas grumbles and pulls back. His hands are still circled around Dean's body.

"But you look so _good."_

"Hasn't the novelty of me being shirtless kinda worn off now?" Dean asks incredulously. "I mean, we've spent pretty much every night together since we first fucked, discounting the one or two right at the start just so Ezekiel wouldn't _really_ suspect anything."

"Never," Cas pulls Dean close. "The novelty of you will _never_ wear off."

"Bullshit." Dean snorts. He pulls out of Castiel's arms and continues undressing. Cas continues to stare at him with those bright, smoldering, hungry eyes. Dean flushes, lips twitching upwards. He has to look down. "You know," He starts, ears growing hot, "I think the first time you ever looked at me like that—and I mean, _properly_ looked at me like that—was at that party the night we first fucked."

"Oh, yeah?" Castiel asks, smirking softly. He sits down on the bed and watches Dean undress. Dean's skin prickles and he has to swallow, certain the flush on his face has not only now crept down onto his neck, but to his chest and shoulders, also.

"Yeah," Dean confirms, trying to ignore Cas's bristling wings, threatening to flare out behind him as he watches Dean undress. "When I first arrived, and was speaking to Ezekiel, and you came out of the room you'd been smoking in. Remember?"

"I remember." Cas nods. "Of course I remember." He laughs, shaking his head. "You like it when I look at you that way?"

Dean's skin heats even further. Castiel smirks still more at the sight.

"Yeah," Dean looks down again. "Yeah, it's hot."

He pulls on his swim trunks, somehow mortified in front of the guy that he's been seriously dating for months, now. When he looks up, Cas has stepped forward, off the bed, and is kissing Dean, who barely has the time to catch his breath.

Pulling back, Cas looks at him through dark eyelashes. There is something so sincere and earnest deep in his expression that Dean has to look away.

"You make me very happy, Dean Winchester."

The words are breathed out into the space between them. Dean is suddenly aware of his bare skin on Cas's. He can't look back up, he only laughs softly, staring at a point on the floor just behind Castiel.

"You make me very happy, too." He returns hoarsely. Before he can think on what it is exactly that the moment means, to both of them, Ezekiel's voice outside their room disrupts the moment like a rock thrown into still waters. It's probably for the best.

"Hey! You guys ready yet?"

Dean jumps back, out of Castiel's arms.

"Yeah," He calls back, blushing and grabbing his towel. "Just coming."

He doesn't look back to Castiel. He wonders what the angel is thinking, whether the angel meant what he said about Dean making him happy—because Dean means what he said with all his heart; Castiel makes something inside Dean's soul blossom, something he had been certain was dead for a long, long time before he met the angel.

Maybe he's just overthinking things. Again.

They exit their room and follow Ezekiel back through the kitchen and outside, where Rachel is waiting for them, beaming, golden hair tied up in a high ponytail.

"What took you so long?" She asks.

"God, don't ask them," Ezekiel grimaces, wrinkling his nose.

"We were unpacking." Dean lies—and it's an obvious one—but Rachel, to her credit, only rolls her eyes and giggles, catching the beachball that Ezekiel tosses her.

"Whatever," She beams. "You guys coming?" She asks, turning and running down the beach, towards the sea.

Ezekiel doesn't look back at Dean and Castiel, only runs in after Rach into the glittering water.

Castiel's hand slips into Dean's. He barely gets a chance to glance sideways at the angel before he is being tugged towards the waves.

Dean is expecting to it be freezing cold; but as his toes meet the water, he finds it surprisingly warm.

"Not just warm," Castiel grins at him, "it's perfect. _Perfect._ Fuck, I never got to do anything like this as a kid."

Dean glances at Cas, a little sadly, but the angel doesn't seem to notice, or realise the melancholy of what he just said—he drags at Dean again, tugging him deeper into the water, until Dean's knees, then thighs are being lapped by waves of pleasantly warm water.

Ezekiel throws the beachball, hard, at Dean, who only just rips his hand from Castiel's to catch just in time.

"Asshole." He glares at Ezekiel, throwing it back as hard as he can. The angel catches it with ease. "How is it possible to throw an inflatable ball so fucking _hard?"_

"I was pitcher on my high school's baseball team. Can you believe that?"

"I can now," Dean grumbles. Rach tosses him the ball.

"Yeah, I was damn good, as well." Ezekiel grins. "Not like, I don't know, good enough to give up everything else and go professional, but pretty good."

Dean throws the ball to Ezekiel.

"See, this is the crap you never tell us, 'Zeke," He shakes his head. "I feel like I know jack shit about you, sometimes."

"I tell you guys loads of stuff," Ezekiel frowns. He tosses the ball to Castiel. "Stuff that matters."

Cas smirks.

"Don't pull the face, Cassie," Ezekiel rolls his eyes. "We _do_ talk!"

"Okay, what's your favourite colour?" Rachel asks, catching the beachball when Castiel throws it to her and throwing it to Ezekiel in one smooth, quick movement.

"Trick question," Ezekiel shakes his head. "All of them."

Dean snorts despite himself.

"C'mon, man," He shakes his head.

"Alright," Ezekiel sighs. "Orange, I guess? That's a happy colour."

"Kind of garish."

" _You're_ kind of garish."

"Orange is a great colour." Dean reassures.

"Thanks Dean," Ezekiel beams, "I needed that validation."

"You're the worst ever."

"See?" Ezekiel grins at Dean's words. "You know _loads_ about me! What's the point in playing this game?"

"What's your favourite film?" Rachel asks, giggling.

"It's obviously gonna be White Chicks. That and Zoolander."

Dean kicks water in Ezekiel's direction.

"Be serious."

"Hm," Ezekiel frowns, "Maybe you really _don't_ know much about me, or you'd know how much of a stupid demand that was."

"Very funny."

"I'd like to think." Ezekiel beams. He catches the ball again when Dean attempts to throw it, very hard, at him. "Uh, no—" He frowns, thinking for a moment. He tosses the ball lazily to Rachel. "The Godfather? Ugh, I don't know, that sounds kinda cliché…"

"At least you're answering seriously," Dean chuckles. "And The Godfather is a good film."

"Yeah, but I feel like _everyone_ would say it was their favourite."

"So it's too mainstream for you, is that it?" Dean smirks. "Ezekiel Milton, too cool for The fucking Godfather."

"You're such a hipster, 'Zeke," Rach's eyes spark with something mischievous. "Who knew?"

"Not me." Dean grins. Ezekiel splashes water in his direction, but it hardly reaches the human. Dean lunges forward and splashes back, and before he knows it, he and 'Zeke are wrestling in the water.

" _Get off,"_ Ezekiel grumbles, but the grin on his face betrays him. "You'll make Cas jealous!"

Rachel bursts out into a fit of giggles, but Dean can't catch Castiel's expression, because Ezekiel is attempting to push his head underwater. Dean ducks down, under the waves, saltwater rippling through his hair and stinging his eyes as he grabs Ezekiel's ankles and tugs, hard. The angel slips and crashes backwards into the water, and Dean stands again, doubled over with laughter.

"Asshole," Ezekiel wrinkles his nose, splashing Dean as he stands back up, soaking wet. " _Asshole."_ He repeats, splashing again.

"You're soaking." Dean grins.

"So are you."

"At least we're equal."

"At least Cassie didn't try to kill me, just now," Ezekiel grins. "You jealous, Cas?"

"I don't think I have much reason to be threatened by you," Castiel deadpans, but amusement sparks behind his eyes. Ezekiel snorts and catches the ball when Cas throws it to him.

"So rude," He shakes his head. "You're breaking my heart, Cas."

"I couldn't be more sorry."

Ezekiel tosses the ball to Rachel, then splashes Cas.

"I'm glad you guys're here," He laughs. Castiel splashes water back at him, and then Dean and Rachel become involved in the fight, too, the whole group spraying water at each other.

"You're adorable." Dean grins at Ezekiel's words.

"You're an asshole."

…

After spending so much time eating with Dean's family, becoming used to, and growing a deep and profound affection for, the lively, joking setting that would house so many mealtimes, eating dinner with Ezekiel's parents is one of the most bizarre experiences of Castiel's life.

He glances up at Dean, sat across from him. Dean looks just as lost as he does.

" _Silence,"_ Castiel mouths the observation. Dean chokes down on a laugh.

Castiel has never seen Ezekiel so out of character. He sits in dead silence, nodding at his parents' questions, looking so _bored_ and out of place. He was right when he lectured Castiel about how different he and his mom and dad were.

"So, Dean, Castiel," Ezekiel's mother turns to the pair, "how long have you been dating?"

"Oh—around five months," Castiel answers, because he honestly doesn't believe Dean would be able to answer, right now—the human sat opposite him seems to be biting down on giggles at every passing moment.

"Oh," Ezekiel's mother nods. She gives a small smile. It seems awkward. Silence.

"A couple like you two moved in on our street, a couple of months back." Ezekiel's father says, breaking the silence.

"A couple like us?" Castiel repeats, nonplussed. Dean snorts a laugh into his food and covers it up with a coughing fit.

"Angel and human. Two men." Ezekiel's dad gestures to the pair. "Just like you."

"Oh," Castiel says. Dean has had to look away to hide his giggles. Ezekiel is pulling a face, staring down at his food. Rachel is remaining amazingly composed. "That's nice. Are they… happy?"

"One of them is a doctor," The older angel answers. He glances at Ezekiel. "So I'm sure they are. Doctors make good money."

"I'm not gonna become a doctor, dad," Ezekiel rolls his eyes. "It's _way_ too late for me to change my mind about that, anyway—"

"Dean, what are your plans for when you leave college?" Ezekiel's mother turns to speak to Dean, possibly trying to ease the tension in the room by shifting the focus away from Ezekiel and his dad.

"Oh, I'm not really sure…" Dean shakes his head. "An architect, ideally—I love designing stuff, and it's kind of a creative job that pays nicely, and I'm good at all that stuff—" Dean seems to be flailing, and glances to Castiel for help, possibly afraid that Ezekiel's parents will treat Dean's future ambitions the way Ezekiel's father treats his own son's.

"That's nice," She nods, polite smile still gracing her features. "Castiel, what about you?"

Castiel squirms in his seat.

Honestly, he has no idea.

He laughs and confesses this, both Ezekiel's parents don't seem very amused, but they fake laughter anyway.

"Maybe a writer?" He glances at both of them, gauging their reaction. "Obviously, that's a long shot—but a non-fiction writer, that's the dream. Maybe a professor, or a teacher—I'd like not to leave education, and working with young people seems as though it would be very rewarding, so…"

"And what about you, Rachel?"

Rachel glances worriedly at Castiel.

"Well, I'm headed off to Hopkins on the twenty-third"

"Oh, that's so soon! What're you looking to study?"

"English Literature," Rachel smiles. "I've, uh, I've always loved it."

Ezekiel's lips twitch upwards.

"That's a good reason to study something." He nods. "You've gotta love what you do, right?"

"Ezekiel, not now," Ezekiel's father rolls his eyes. Castiel casts an uncomfortable look in Dean's direction.

"You know," Dean starts, easing the tension, "Rachel got a scholarship. She's a total genius. Cas gushes about it all the time."

Rachel's cheeks tinge pink. She glances at Castiel, a smile that makes his heart turn soft and warm gracing her lips.

"Does he?" She asks, just as flattered as she is embarrassed. "Well, he probably leaves out the fact that he got a free ride, too. And that I only worked hard because he managed to encourage me to."

Dean turns to Castiel, eyebrows raised.

"Now, you never told me _that."_

Castiel flushes.

"I… didn't want to come off conceited."

Ezekiel snorts into his food. Castiel squints at him.

"I mean, to be fair, Dean," Ezekiel looks up at Dean, "it should've been kinda obvious."

"Obvious?" Dean repeats.

"Yeah," Ezekiel frowns. "Like, Cas spent _years_ of his life in a damn _children's home,_ on top of all that he's a genius, so—"

"You were in care?" Ezekiel's father raises his eyebrows in surprise at Castiel and Rachel.

"Um—" Castiel bristles awkwardly. "Yes, we were." He confirms.

"You were never adopted?"

Ezekiel looks uncomfortable again.

"—Uh—not many parents were looking to adopt _two_ children—and not when we were as old as we were—most tend to want babies—"

"Dad," Ezekiel groans.

"I was adopted, you know," Ezekiel's father nods. Both Dean's and Castiel's gazes snap back over to him. Rachel looks at him with surprise.

"Oh," She says simply. "When was that?"

"When I was a baby," Ezekiel's father laughs. "I guess you were right, children like me were in high demand, and I was lucky. You were never fostered?"

"Once or twice—" Castiel confesses, glancing up at Rachel as he speaks. "And once or twice they tried separating us, but—"

"It didn't end pretty." Rachel finishes Castiel's sentence for him, and he's glad for it.

"What do you plan to do after college, Rachel?"

Rachel glances nervously back at Castiel and admits that she, like her brother, has little idea.

"English teacher?" She suggests, half-jokingly. Ezekiel smirks down at his plate, rubbing the back of his neck.

After the meal, Rachel, Dean, Ezekiel and Castiel head outside to make a fire and drink.

"You were right about your parents being nothing like you…" Castiel murmurs in his roommate's ear. Ezekiel turns to smile drolly at him.

"Right?" He laughs. "Can't wait to move out. Fuck."

"Yeah, you can kind of tell…"

" _They_ can kind of tell, too." Ezekiel rolls his eyes, sitting down on the sand as Dean and Rachel dig a hole for the fire. They chatter and giggle and Dean grins at Rachel as he jokes with her, and Castiel's heart flowers with something new. "Honestly," He huffs, poking at the sand with his toes. "You'd think the digs about me not going into a high-paid career would stop at some point, but no."

"I don't think they're _trying_ to—"

"But that just makes it worse, see? Like," Ezekiel sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. I know they love me. Obviously they do. Obviously they want what's best for me." He huffs out a resigned breath. "C'mon," He sits up, "let's go get some firewood."

Castiel looks up at Ezekiel for a moment before following after him.

"But you resent them for thinking they know what's best for you?" Castiel asks as he catches up with Ezekiel. The angel glances at him, something new flickering across his expression.

"Yeah, maybe. Something like that." He shrugs, sniffing. "I guess we just have pretty different life philosophies. It's not easy to live with people you disagree with on pretty much fucking _everything."_

"I guess," Castiel nods. "So what _do_ you want to do, next year?"

Ezekiel laughs hoarsely, picking up some sticks.

"Fuck, I dunno." He shakes his head. "Something beautiful. I don't give a shit about money. I don't give a shit about stability. I might join a band just to piss my parents off. I don't care," He laughs. "I don't care." He repeats, smiling oddly. "Maybe I could teach, like you said? That seems cool. I'd like to make kids love science. I'd like it if I managed to show some kid how beautiful physics is, if I made my classes see the universe for how amazing and beautiful it is."

"That sounds good." Castiel nods softly. He picks up a small fallen branch from the ground and breaks it into smaller pieces. "You'd be a great teacher, I think."

Ezekiel glances up and grins at Castiel.

"That means a lot, baby." He winks. "Thank you."

Castiel snorts. "Fuck off," He rolls his eyes. "Every time I think you're taking something seriously—"

"Or I could be a comedian!" Ezekiel exclaims. "Damn, I'd be amazing at that."

Castiel pulls an unconvinced face. Ezekiel laughs and pushes him.

"Okay," He says, picking up a few more sticks, as Castiel breaks up another branch. "I think we've got enough—at least for now. Let's head back."

Back on the beach, Dean and Rachel have dug a pretty good fire pit and have just finished laying stones around it.

"What do you guys think?" Dean asks, grinning up at Castiel and Ezekiel as they approach.

"Amazing," Ezekiel snorts, punching Dean lightly on the arm as he sits down. "You guys want beers? Or rum?"

"Are you gonna be drinking the rum straight?" Rachel asks, wrinkling her nose.

"Ugh," Ezekiel rolls his eyes dramatically. "I guess _you_ don't have to. We could try making cocktails, or something."

"What kind of rum is it?" Castiel asks.

"We've got two options: spiced or white." Ezekiel answers. "Rachel, what're you gonna go for?"

"White rum, I guess?" She asks, raising her eyebrows at Castiel's roommate. "With orange juice—is that okay?"

"Disappointing," Ezekiel shakes his head, feigning melancholy, "but fine. What about you, Deano?"

Dean smirks.

"Just get me a couple of beers, thanks, 'Zeke. That'd be great."

"Also disappointing," Ezekiel sighs. "Cas?"

"Is there a right answer to this?" Castiel asks, raising his eyebrows at his roommate.

"Yes," Ezekiel nods. "Say you'll have what I'm having."

"I'll have what you're having?" Castiel squints at Ezekiel.

"Good choice, Cassie," Ezekiel grins. "So, white rum and orange for Rachel, beers for Dean, and straight spiced rum for me and Castiel."

"Oh, fuck no—" Castiel stammers, but Ezekiel has already risen, and is running back inside to get everyone their drinks. Dean laughs and follows him, shouting that he'll help out.

"You're gonna regret that decision," Rachel grins at Castiel as he sighs and scrubs at his face with his hands.

"I'm sure I will," He shakes his head, looking out to the spray of the sea. "Don't think I'll be able to drink _anything."_

"Which means you'll be completely sober while the rest of us are having an amazing time."

"Exactly," Castiel wrinkles his nose. "How fucking terrible is that?"

"Or you'll grit your teeth, get through it, and get _really_ wasted."

"I don't want that, either." Castiel groans. His lips twitch upwards when he glances back at Rachel.

She giggles, shaking her head.

"Dean's definitely loosened you up, you know."

"You're saying I used to be uptight?"

"Not uptight, as such," Rachel smirks. "Anal, maybe?"

Castiel pushes her lightly.

"Gee, thanks," He rolls his eyes.

"No," Rachel shakes her head, "that wasn't an insult. Or, like," She giggles, shaking her head, "I didn't mean it as an insult to begin with. I just—I think he's good for you."

"I think he's good, period." Castiel states. Rachel smiles softly.

"Yeah," She nods.

Castiel squints at her.

"What're you thinking about, Rach?"

She sighs, a little wistfully.

"I don't know," She shrugs. "It's weird that I'm going off to college—and only in a matter of _weeks."_

"It is," Castiel agrees. He reaches out to take her hand. "But it's good. You're going places, gonna do great things—"

Rachel giggles, blushing, and tugs her hand away from Castiel.

"So patronising." She rolls her eyes.

"I'm not meaning to be."

"It's funny, how much you've grown." She says, softly.

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know," She shrugs again, "I just—you never used to commit before, and that was to _angels,_ and now you're in a committed, serious relationship with a _human."_

"What're you talking about?"

"Dean must be pretty special." Her eyes have turned soft. Castiel frowns at the expression, but before he can ask her to elaborate, Ezekiel and Dean come bounding out the house, towards them, carrying everyone's drinks.

Dean sets down a case of beers for himself, handing Rachel a two-liter bottle of liquid.

"That's yours," He nods to it, "white rum and orange juice. There's a lot of it, so, uh, no worries if it's too much. It's got, like, more than half a bottle of rum in there, anyway—and a big one—so I probably wouldn't drink it all, anyway."

"Thanks, Dean," Rachel beams, nodding up at Dean from where she sits. Dean takes a seat next to Castiel. Ezekiel takes a seat between Castiel and his sister.

"And here's our drink, Cassie," He beams, wrapping an arm around Castiel's side, holding up a bottle of dark liquid up to Castiel's face. "You excited?"

"Can't wait." Castiel rolls his eyes.

"Isn't it weird for you eighteen year old sister to be here, drinking with us?" Ezekiel asks, opening the bottle.

"No weirder than it must be having his nineteen year old boyfriend here," Rachel points out.

"Touché." Ezekiel smirks.

"And Cassie's probably done a lot worse than drink," Rachel glances over to him, eyes sparking with amusement.

"That he has," Ezekiel nods his head, waggling both his fingers at Castiel and his sister. "But have you never _told_ her, Castiel?" He turns to the other angel, gasping theatrically. Castiel gives his roommate a deadpan look.

"It never came up." He says simply. "And I'm not _uncomfortable_ with sharing—"

"Then share." Ezekiel grins. "Better yet—let's play that game you and Dean played the night you first kissed—you know the one—"

"Yes, I know the one," Castiel groans, rolling his eyes, "I'm just not really okay with playing it with my _sister—"_

"Oh, we'll make rules," Ezekiel sighs as though Castiel is the most frustrating person out there, "like, nothing dirty, nothing too embarrassing, so on."

"I think that's where, like, half the fun is meant to be, in the game."

"What _is_ this game?" Rachel asks, frowning.

"It's called 'never have I ever'," Ezekiel grins.

"How do you play?"

"You start out by saying 'never have I ever', and then a thing—like, _never have I ever been arrested,_ or, _never have I ever shoplifted."_ Ezekiel explains. "And then if you've done that thing, you drink. Everyone takes it in turns to say something—you can say something you've done before if it's your turn, you just have to drink, afterwards. It can get pretty juicy."

Rachel smiles graciously.

"I think I get it." She nods. "Okay—but why did you and Dean play it the night you kissed?" She asks her brother.

Ezekiel turns to gape at Castiel.

"Cassie, have you _never_ told Rachel the story of how you and Dean got together?"

Castiel reddens and shrinks into his seat in the sand.

"It, uh—never came up."

"It did, too," Rachel frowns. "You said you kissed him one night when the two of you were alone, and you started dating the next day—is there _more_ to that story?"

Ezekiel bursts out into a fit of giggles. Rachel glances over to him, amusement sparking in her eyes.

"Oh, Rach, there's _way_ more," He grins.

"Dean," Castiel protests, looking over to the human, "can't you stop him?"

"I've got nothin' to be embarrassed about, Cas," Dean grins lopsidedly, shrugging. " _You,_ on the other hand?"

"What happened?" Rachel presses.

"Do you want to tell?" Ezekiel asks, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. Castiel only glares back in response. "Okay, fine," The other angel raises his hands in sign of surrender. " _Dean,_ do you wanna tell it?"

"Funny as it sounds, I think you'd be able to do the story the most justice, and you weren't even there." Dean eyes Ezekiel with affection, the setting sun glinting in his eyes. The green and gold flecks in them catch the light the same way the sea does. "You tell. I'll start the fire."

Ezekiel beams as Dean picks up the sticks and begins setting them in a pyramid shape, all pointing upwards.

"You guys didn't get any kindling?" He raises his eyebrows at Castiel and Ezekiel, who both frown back at him.

"The hell is kindling?"

Dean rolls his eyes.

"Y'know, twigs, dead leaves, straw—little things, to get the fire going."

Ezekiel and Castiel share a sheepish glance.

"Idiots," Dean rolls his eyes, peeling the label off one of his beer bottles and tearing it up, placing it at the centre of the little pyramid of firewood. He does this with several more labels, before breaking off the smallest of the twigs branching off some of the sticks on the pile, putting them in the centre, too. "This ought to do it." He sighs, lighting a match and shielding it with his hand. The first few blow out.

"Use a lighter?" Ezekiel suggests.

"I refuse to use a fucking _lighter."_ Dean shakes his head.

"Were you a boyscout, Dean?" Ezekiel asks, hardly suppressing his laughter. Dean glances up, unamused.

"Why?" He asks, cautiously.

Ezekiel bursts out laughing.

"I _knew_ you were!" He exclaims, stomping his feet happily.

"Hey, hey _hey!"_ Dean hits the angel so that he stops. "You're getting sand fucking _everywhere._ Just—calm down and tell the damn story, 'Zeke."

"Right," Ezekiel grins, turning to Rachel. Castiel groans. Dean lights another match and shields it from the wind successfully, lighting the papers and twigs at the centre of the fire pit. The matches which burnt out from his earlier, unsuccessful attempts, and were tossed into the pile as well, catch fire too, now.

"Bingo," Dean grins, the fire catching in his eyes.

Despite his embarrassment, Castiel can't help but think how beautiful the human is.

Dean's heart is becoming more and more like Castiel's home. He wonders what will happen if it ever gets taken from him.

"So, one night—I think, in like, the _last_ days of February, Dean came round to me and Cas's dorm to come chill, and I was out at a party." Ezekiel says to Rachel. "I say ' _party'_ —that's me using the term pretty damn liberally. What I mean is, I was at a get-together of kids in my physics class because it was one of their birthdays. Normally, I'd've invited Dean along—but you know the kind of person who takes physics. They're mostly nerds, and kind of shy. Obviously I'm the exception to that, being outstandingly cool, and very social."

Rachel giggles, hugging her knees to her chest.

Dean grins distractedly, prodding at the fire with a stick. It's still very small, but Dean blows on it a moment, and sparks shoot up, flames liking at the larger bits of firewood.

"So Dean comes round, expecting me, not getting me. Must've been disappointing. He'd brought—what was it, Dean? Whiskey? Well, whatever, he'd brought booze with him, hoping we could share it and hang out for a while. Again, it must've been disappointing when he found out I wasn't there." He turns to look seriously at Dean. "I'm very sorry I put you through that, buddy." He nods seriously to Dean, who chuckles and pushes Ezekiel lightly.

"You're forgiven. Turned out pretty well, in the end."

Ezekiel snorts.

"Anyway, Dean probably wanted to leave, once he found out I wasn't around—"

"You come off as very conceited, you know that, right?"

"Cassie, don't interrupt," Ezekiel hushes, pressing his hand to Castiel's face. Castiel swats him off. Rachel giggles again.

"Well, I mean, I was more embarrassed that I'd just burst into the room in the way that I had," Dean grins, still poking at the fire. "I didn't expect Cas to be there, and there he was, and there was no Ezekiel to save me from my own awkwardness."

Rachel presses her lips together as though she is trying to stifle her own laughter.

"You aren't complaining about _Dean_ interrupting…" Castiel grumbles.

"Cassie, Dean's helping tell the story," Ezekiel rolls his eyes. "If you want to help, then join in, don't just sit there _whining."_

"Fine," Castiel rolls his eyes. "Then Dean asked where Ezekiel was, and I said he was out, and that Dean could stay anyway, if he wanted, that we could talk, and so he did. And then, after a while, I got up the guts to kiss him. There," He finishes, glaring at Ezekiel. "Storytime's done."

"You're missing out the _best bits,"_ Ezekiel giggles. "And on purpose, I bet." He turns back to Rachel. "So Dean stays, obviously—and you know how obviously in love with Cas Dean was—so really, Cas wasn't putting himself far out there _at all_ when he kissed the guy _,_ not like he makes out, but that's another story. Anyway, Dean stays, and they start talking and drinking for a bit. Just casual, y'know."

"Then what?" Rachel asks, glancing at Castiel, looking very much amused.

"Then," Ezekiel grins, "Cas suggests going outside. Because—and this is what Dean says is a direct quote— _it's more romantic."_

Rachel snorts out a laugh.

Castiel glares at her.

"I was joking." He says, tersely.

"Clearly not," Ezekiel rolls his eyes, "or else you wouldn't have fucking kissed Dean in the first place, would you?"

Castiel's jaw clenches.

"So you're outside," Rachel looks at Dean. "Then what happens?"

"Cas suggests that we cuddle for warmth," Dean snorts.

"How drunk _were_ you?" Rachel stares back at Castiel, giggling again.

"So we sit down," Dean continues, suppressing his mirth, though only just, "and Cas is like: 'let's play a game!'" Dean mimics Castiel, which naturally has both Rachel and Ezekiel in _fits_ of laughter, "and I'm like 'what?'—but we sit—and he suggests this game. And I have no idea where he's going with it, but I'm just like, 'uh, sure?'. So then we start playing. And we go through the normal motions of it, which you'll learn about soon enough, Rach, don't worry—but then I think I did something to lower the tone, like—oh, yeah—earlier that night, I admitted that I had a crush on Cas, and he admitted that he'd noticed." Ezekiel bites down on his laughter. "So then—I guess to cheer me up, or something?" Dean glances over to Cas questioningly, who flicks his gaze up to the human.

"It wasn't to cheer you up…" Castiel mumbles.

"Then what was it for?" Ezekiel giggles.

"It wasn't _only_ to cheer him up…" Castiel amends.

"Then what else?"

"Dean said he didn't think he'd ever be able to feel comfortable around me, unless he was drunk… and that kind of hurt—like, I _liked_ Dean, and I was just scared _because_ I liked Dean, y'know? Because of _how much_ I liked him—I don't really… open up, to anyone, I guess. And here Dean was, and I was comfortable with sharing so much of myself with him, and he was saying he wasn't comfortable around me, and that the only way he _would_ be comfortable around me would be when he was _wasted_ —and I knew he had a crush on me, and I knew I had a crush—well," Castiel amends, " _more_ than a crush on him… And I was sick of being cold to him, sick of being withdrawn. I'd decided that a couple of nights before. I have a dick and balls, you know? I needed to act like it." Rachel wrinkles her nose at Castiel's language, and he apologises for it. "Sorry. You know what I mean—obviously people without balls can be, and are tough, too—" Dean snorts as Castiel speaks. "So anyway—Dean is feeling sad again, I'm feeling sad because Dean is feeling sad; I'm also feeling guilty, and feeling like I'm—" Castiel cuts himself off. "Like I really, _really_ like Dean," He decides, "so I say, as the next part of the game, 'kissed Castiel'. And Dean is naturally really confused—"

"I can imagine," Rachel's lips twitch upwards. She eyes Castiel with affection. Castiel can feel Dean's gaze pressing to the side of his face, now, and his skin burns wherever the human's eyes touch. Something has changed about the way Dean sits, now, he doesn't look at Castiel with amusement, any more, but with something softer, more thoughtful. It makes Castiel's stomach turn backflips.

"—And I say, 'have you ever kissed Castiel?', and he says no, obviously—and then I say, 'would you like to?'—and he's still really confused at first, so then I lean in, and I ask him again, I say: 'would you like to?'—and he said yes, so then I did. I kissed him." Castiel's face is burning, and not just from the heat of the fire he sits so close to. "But I only kiss him once, 'cause I start to worry that he only said yes because he felt pressure to, and we stay and talk for a while, and then when he leaves I start thinking about how much of an _idiot_ I am for not kissing him again, and I start worrying about how much Dean is going to be worrying about it—because, y'know. Dean is _Dean_. And then," Castiel rubs a hand over his burning face, "the next day, he comes in with Ezekiel—"

"It was more like _dragged_ in, by me," Ezekiel chuckles. "I had no idea why he was so reluctant about coming in."

Castiel's lips twitch upwards.

"Yeah, he was… I don't know—you thought I regretted it, didn't you?" Castiel asks, turning to look at Dean as he speaks.

Dean looks up at Castiel. Something has grown distant in his eyes, like the stars on a cloudy night.

"Yeah…" He confirms, voice croaking. "I… I thought you hated me, again…"

Castiel's heart sighs.

"But I didn't, obviously." He turns back to Rachel. "I—I didn't hate him." He says softly. "Quite the opposite. But Dean left, and Ezekiel thought it was my fault, which I guess it kind of _was—_ and so he hit me, and we started fighting—"

Ezekiel chuckles next to Castiel.

"—And then I stormed out, onto the corridor, and Dean was still there, berating himself for everything, I guess, and I looked at him and I just—" Castiel cuts himself off. "I knew I needed him. So I called his name, he stopped kicking himself, and went bright red, and I just…"

"You just?" Rachel raises her eyebrows at her brother.

"He kissed me," Dean laughs gently. "He marched right over to me and kissed me. And then he asked me if I wanted to get coffee, or something." Dean's gaze flutters over to Castiel. "And I said yes."

Silence for a moment.

Dean is looking at Castiel with something new.

" _God,_ Cas," Ezekiel groans, "it was meant to be a _funny_ story. You turned it into something _adorable."_

Castiel's lips twitch upwards. He pulls himself out of his daze as he looks at Dean, and turns to Ezekiel, instead.

"Sorry," He chuckles softly. "Didn't mean to ruin it."

"Doesn't matter," Ezekiel rolls his eyes, smirking. "It was cute."

"It was lovely," Rachel beams. "You two are _adorable."_

"Right?" Ezekiel grins over to her. "Anyway, long story short, this game will forever go down in history as the game that got Dean and Cas together—or at least, the game that finally got Cassie to pull his head outta his ass."

"That's quite the legacy." Rachel comments. Ezekiel cackles.

"Yeah, definitely. So. D'you wanna play?"

"Sure," Rachel nods, crossing her legs beneath her. "Who should start?"

Castiel glances back at Dean. He watches the fire dance in the human's eyes, red and yellow caught in emerald green.

He thinks again of how the human feels like home.

He thinks of how he hasn't had a home since he was thirteen.

He wishes his parents were alive so that he could take Dean home and introduce them, to show them his boyfriend and show them how good and kind and funny Dean is. They'd love him, Castiel knows, they'd love Dean almost as much as _Castiel_ loves him.

And fuck, Castiel thinks to himself, he really loves Dean.


	23. The Water Song

**Chapter 23**

 

“You go first,” Ezekiel smiles, pouring rum into two cups for himself and Castiel, handing one of them to his roommate. “It’s your first time playing.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Rachel shakes her head, smiling good-naturedly.

_ “Fine,”  _ Ezekiel rolls his eyes. “Never have I ever… Peed in public,” He grins. “As in, outside. On the street. In a bush. Y’know.”

Dean and Ezekiel both drink. Castiel turns to Dean in disgust.

_ “Dean!”  _ He shakes his head in disbelief. Dean snorts out a laugh.

“What?”

“That’s  _ disgusting!” _

“You’re not telling ‘Zeke off!”

“I expected that kind of thing from him, but  _ you—” _

“Honestly, Cas, I’m kind of weirded out that you  _ haven’t  _ peed in public.” Ezekiel sighs at his roommate. “I mean, you  _ are  _ a guy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a guy,” Castiel squints. “What’s your point?”

“Well, it’s easier to pee outside if you have a dick,” Ezekiel states. “That’s why I’m excusing Rachel off this one, ‘cause she, y’know. Doesn’t.”

“Ezekiel.”

“Cas.” Ezekiel replies. “You’ve been drunk. You’ve been wasted outside. You’ve been a  _ kid  _ outside. How have you never had to pee in public?”

“Because it’s, I don’t know, illegal?” Castiel squints back at his roommate.

“Oh,” Ezekiel snorts, “like that’s ever stopped you doing shit before. C’mon, Cassie. Piss in the sea. Do it now. No one’s looking.”

Castiel glares at Ezekiel.

“Never have I ever puked on a girl I was trying to hook up with.” He says, voice monotonous as he can make. Ezekiel’s expression falls.

“What?” Rachel asks, giggling and confused.

Ezekiel stares at the ground and drinks.

Dean chokes on his own laughter and enters a coughing fit, giggles rasped around it. Rachel presses her lips together and has to look away, body shaking with giggles.

“You’re dead to me, Cassie,” Ezekiel glares at Castiel, who only smirks triumphantly and sips his own drink coolly, raising his eyebrows at the other angel and resisting the temptation to wretch at the taste of pure rum on his lips.

“Care to explain, Ezekiel?”

Ezekiel heaves a great sigh out, shaking his head and looking out to sea.

“Fine,” He grits his teeth. Dean is still giggling. “Shuddup, Dean,” He glares at the human, but this only makes Dean laugh  _ more.  _ “I was a freshman, before any of you start pissing yourselves, I was a freshman—”

“You were a freshman the  _ first  _ time,” Castiel corrects, smirking at his roommate.

“It happened  _ more than once?”  _ Dean has actually started crying with laughter, body shaking uncontrollably. Castiel snorts.

“How many times?” Rachel manages to ask through her giggles.

“Only twice,” Ezekiel grumbles. “So stop laughing. Only twice—”

_ “Only  _ twice,” Dean wipes his eyes, shoulders still heaving.  _ “Only  _ twice, he says!”

“To the same girl, or different girls?” Rachel asks. Ezekiel casts her a filthy look. She stares back at him all through it.

“Same girl.” He admits, looking down.

Dean cracks up again.

“She gave you a second chance?”

Ezekiel toes the sand with his right foot.

“She did.”

“But not a third?” Dean giggles. Ezekiel looks up at him.

“After being puked on by me twice, what do you think, Dean?”

Rachel giggles, covering her mouth with her hand. Ezekiel glances up to her, annoyed.

“But why did she give you a second chance?” She asks. “Wasn’t once enough?”

“Look,” Ezekiel sighs, running a hand through his hair, “the first time it happened, I was really drunk, and a freshman, like I said.”

“But you weren’t really drunk the second time?”

Ezekiel flushes at Rachel’s words.

“I guess I didn’t know how drunk I was,” He grumbles. “It was a year later, she probably thought that it was a one-off thing—”

“Clearly it wasn’t.” Dean snorts. Rachel titters.

“No,” Ezekiel looks up to the human, glaring daggers, “clearly not.”

“What did she  _ do?  _ And what did you do?”

“The first time, or the second?” Ezekiel asks, looking over to Rachel. She snorts again, and tries, to no avail, to bite down on her amusement. A reluctant smile draws itself across Ezekiel’s features. “Just laugh it out, Rach,” He shakes his head, “I know how funny you find it, don’t hold back.” Rachel bursts out laughing. Ezekiel grins longsufferingly and shakes his head. “She uh—the first time she was really nice about it,” He admits, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “She was like  _ ‘are you okay? don’t worry about it!’  _ and went and got me some water and told Cassie to look out for me.”

“She didn’t stay with you?” Dean asks, grinning.

“No,” Ezekiel replies shortly. “I think she’d uh—been through enough.”

Dean laughs so hard that he snorts his beer out his nose. This, naturally, distracts the group for several near-hysterical minutes, all doubled over with laughter at Dean—but Ezekiel probably ends up feeling that it doesn’t distract them long enough. Rachel turns back to Castiel’s roommate expectantly, raising her eyebrows, and Ezekiel heaves out another groan.

“So where did you puke on her? The first time?”

Dean still hasn’t stopped laughing. It warms something in Castiel’s heart to see the human this entertained, this happy.

“We’d, uh, been making out for a while,” Ezekiel rubs the back of his neck, “I was really drunk, like I said. And suddenly—I dunno, you know how it can all come up, like, all at once?”

“Literally or figuratively?” Rachel asks, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Both, I guess?” Ezekiel chuckles, shaking his head. “I just—suddenly it  _ all  _ hit me, and I pulled back, outta the kiss, and was like  _ ‘I need to go to the bathroom’ _ — _ ” _

Dean, who had managed to recompose himself, up to this point, loses it all over again. Ezekiel chuckles and shakes his head at his friend.

“But like, nothing came out, you know?” His cheeks are pink, but he manages to smile good-naturedly. “I couldn’t speak, it was all too slurred, so it probably sounded way  _ more  _ like ‘ _ Inyeedogodadibafrom’ _ —” He does an impression of a very drunk person’s voice, and Dean doubles over with laughter again. “And she was like, ‘what?’, and I was like  _ ‘I don’t feel so good’,  _ but again, it probably sounded way more like  _ ‘Idonfeesogoo’,  _ so she understood literally  _ none  _ of it _.” _

Rachel has lost herself to uncontrollable laughter. Ezekiel grins at the sound.

“And then she asks me if I’m okay, and I look down, trying to catch my breath, and y’know, steady myself—’cause you know what’s weird?” His tone changes, and he looks up at the group, pulling a confused face, “it literally  _ all  _ hit me at once. Like, I’d taken six shots in quick succession—I’d had a couple of beers before that, and then some fucking weirdo had brought a white wine, so I’d had some of that, like, a few glasses of it—”

“Ooh,” Dean winces, “never mix grain and grape.”

“Well, I know that  _ now,”  _ Ezekiel grumbles, “back then I thought mixing drinks was  _ fine,  _ and I didn’t have much of a tolerance, and I’d been totally fine  _ before  _ we started making out, but then it just all hit me— _ anyway,”  _ He sighs, shaking his head, “I was looking down, trying to sort myself out, and I just,” He starts giggling, and so does the rest of the group, “puked in her lap.” He laughs. So does everyone else. Ezekiel looks up to Castiel with a grin on his face, shaking his head. “You’re the worst ever, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, only half-sincere. He returns his friends bemused smile. “It made a good story, though.”

“The story’s not half over!” Rachel shakes her head. “What did you say next? What happened the next time? Why did she still want to make out with you the next time? Did you puke on her lap  _ again,  _ or somewhere else? Do you ever speak to her now?”

“Woah,” Ezekiel raises his hands in surrender, smile loose and lopsided. “Flurry of questions right there, Rach,” He sighs out another laugh. “I uh—after the first time, I apologised,” He laughs. “I mean, what else can you do when you’ve literally just puked on someone? Not much, I reckon. Anything else kind of makes you an asshole.” Rachel has started giggling again, shaking her head through teary eyes as Ezekiel talks. “And she brushed my apology aside the first time, like I said—like, she was  _ so nice,  _ which just makes the fact that I puked on her even worse—like, she didn’t deserve to get puked on. She was nowhere on the list of people who deserve to have vomit spewed all over their lap.”

_ “Spewed,”  _ Dean repeats, grinning.

“Uh—what else did you want to know?” Ezekiel turns to Rachel, squinting. “The second time?—That was at another party, in like, January of the next year. She’d probably thought that I’d matured, and by the end of the night she was definitely disappointed,” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But anyway. I flirted my way back into her good books, at the beginning of the night, made her laugh, y’know—all the usual—”

“Except, ‘Zeke,” Dean grins, “You’re the most awkward guy around pretty girls I’ve  _ ever  _ seen. You  _ can’t  _ flirt. You have to wait for them to flirt with  _ you.” _

“What does he mean?” Rachel frowns softly.

“I’m uh—” Ezekiel gestures vaguely, uncomfortable again, “I’m not good with the whole—” He gestures again, “y’know.”

“Ezekiel doesn’t have any game,” Dean grins over to Rachel. Castiel chuckles softly.

“I have game,” The angel frowns indignantly. “I just—”

Dean snorts out another laugh.

_ “Anyway,”  _ Ezekiel glares, “I was wasted. So there.”

“So you find it easier to talk to girls when you’re drunk?” Rachel asks.

“I mean,” Ezekiel frowns as though this is a silly question. “Who doesn’t? Isn’t that like, one of the main points of drinking?”

“I drink to have fun,” Castiel says matter-of-factly, more to annoy Ezekiel than anything else. “Because unlike  _ some _ people, I’m not a sleaze.”

“Cas, don’t try to be funny, it doesn’t suit you,” Ezekiel deadpans. Rachel giggles and Dean makes a  _ ‘oooh’  _ sound, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Anyway, if there’s anything this story teaches us, it’s that I’m definitely  _ not _ a sleaze, nor am I a man-slut, nor am I anything that implies that I a: Know how to seduce women and b: Take advantage of them. Like Dean said,  _ they’re  _ the ones that have to flirt with  _ me.” _

Castiel snorts.

“Don’t laugh, Cassie, I do it to give everyone else a fighting chance,” Ezekiel winks. “If I unleashed my incredible flirting powers…” He huffs out a breath through his teeth for effect. “Whoo-ee. It’d be a pretty lonely time for the rest of you.”

“I have Dean,” Castiel points out, sliding his hand onto Dean’s thigh. The human looks up at him with soft eyes, flickering with red and gold in the firelight. “So I’d be alright.”

“Like Dean would be able to resist me,” Ezekiel grins, moving to lie on his front in the sand. He rests his chin in his hands and looks up at the rest of the group.

“I can hardly resist you as it is, ‘Zeke,” Dean winks at his friend, who smiles roguishly back at him.

“Please, Dean, not in front of Cas. He’ll get jealous again, and we have to keep our love secret.”

Rachel giggles at Castiel’s roommate.

“Anyway, you had more questions, didn’t you, Rachel?” Ezekiel asks, glancing up at her. She nods her head in confirmation. “Uh—so, second time, I’m drunk, I’m confident, I’m smooth as,” He grins, winking wolfishly at the group, “and I guess she figures it’s worth moving on from the whole puke-in-lap thing, and maybe give the two of us hooking up a second go. So we start making out, everything’s going great. But I was wasted before we even started, right? So as we start making out, drinking, talking, I don’t sober up. I get  _ worse,  _ and then I’m like,  _ shit, it’s happening again,  _ and—oh no, this is where it gets really bad, I forgot to mention. So we were literally about to fuck—”

“ _ No _ ,” Dean grins, wide-eyed with disbelief.

“Yeah,” Ezekiel nods, pulling a pained expression. “So I’m leaning over her, she’s lying down, and suddenly I realise—I’m like  _ shit, not again!  _ So I try to pull back, but she tries to sit up with me, sensing something’s wrong, and I,” Ezekiel giggles, face in hands, “I puke,  _ all over  _ her front.” He shakes his head, groaning, but still managing to laugh. “All over her clothes—and it was like, a  _ really _ nice top she was wearing. She probably chose it specially for that party, and I probably ruined it. I feel so bad.”

Dean’s laughter sounds a little hysterical.

“Dude,” He shakes his head, eyes watering again, “you’re  _ disgusting.” _

“I know.” Ezekiel moans, staring up at the sky.

“You’re a mess!”

“I know!” He laughs, shouting the words out, voice filled with an odd combination of hopelessness and amusement.

“What did she say?” Rachel asks, smiling at Ezekiel, very much entertained.

“Oh my god,” Ezekiel grins, “so this is where it gets  _ hilarious—” _

“What, like it wasn’t before?” Dean manages to ask through his constant giggles.

“So she says—” Ezekiel loses himself to his laughter for a moment, and has to recover, “she looks up at me, covered in my vomit, disgust  _ scrawled  _ across her face, and she says, ‘ _ God, Ezekiel, is this some kind of  _ kink  _ of yours?’” _

The group is doubled over with laughter again. Dean has started crying, Castiel’s stomach hurts by the force of his own amusement, Ezekiel, blushing, shakes his head wistfully through his own chuckles.

“But do you speak to her, any more?” Rachel manages to ask through her giggles, eventually.

“Oh, fuck no,” Ezekiel wrinkles his nose. “What do you think?” He laughs. “I think I saw her, like, twice after that at parties. Guess she made a conscious effort to avoid me—”

“I can’t think why,” Dean grins. Ezekiel sighs and shakes his head, laughing good-naturedly.

“I saw her walking to class a while back,”

“What did she say to you?”

“Nothin’,” Ezekiel chuckles. “Just gave me a cold, hard glare that said ‘ _ don’t you dare puke on me or talk to me ever again’.  _ And I gave her a look that said  _ ‘I’m sorry for ruining your outfit and probably your week with drunk-person vomit. Twice.’” _

Dean and Rachel are in a fit of laughter again. Castiel smiles affectionately at his roommate.

“And like the idiot I am,” Ezekiel chortles, “I told Cassie this story. Guess I should’ve known better, but. We share stuff with each other, I guess.”

“Apart from him liking me back.” Dean grins.

“Yes,” Ezekiel concedes. “Apart from him liking you back. And him dating you—had to find that one out for myself—”

“How did you find out?” Rachel asks, frowning. “And why didn’t he tell you?”

Ezekiel looks over to his roommate in disbelief.

“Damn, Cassie, do you tell your sister  _ anything _ ?” 

Castiel glares at him.

“I tell her all the stuff that  _ matters.” _

“Like what?”

“Like,” Castiel looks away, choosing instead to cast his gaze out to the shadows made by the sea, “Rachel was the first person I told that I liked Dean. I’d barely admitted it to myself, yet, and—”

“When did you tell her that?”

Castiel toes the sand and looks down at his feet. Dean has started prodding at the fire with a stick again, probably to feign indifference, but the angel can feel his boyfriend’s gaze pressing heavy to the side of his face, prickling the skin there.

“When she and Dean first met,” He confesses, “when I was walking her to the bus. She uh—she kind of worked it out,” He admits sheepishly, glancing over to Rachel. “I didn’t really mean to tell her. It was a combination between her weedling it out of me, and me letting it slip. But yeah, January-time, I guess that would make it.”

“How did Ezekiel find out?” Rachel presses.

“Oh, right,” Castiel runs his hands down his legs distractedly. “Well, he, uh—”

“I walked in on them both cuddling. And naked.” Ezekiel wrinkles his nose. Rachel snorts into her hand.

“Seriously?” She asks.

“Yeah,” Ezekiel nods, grinning at her.

“We were  _ not  _ cuddling,” Castiel grumbles.

“Really? Then what would you call it?”

Castiel looks away, jaw clenching.

“They were post-fuck,” Ezekiel says matter-of-factly to Rachel.

“Ezekiel!” Castiel exclaims.

“Post-fuck, Cassie drawing patterns on Dean’s skin, playing with his hair— _ ow _ !” Ezekiel exclaims, turning to glare at Castiel, who has just hit him.

“You deserved that.” Castiel grumbled. Ezekiel rubs his arm, where Castiel aimed his punch, and winces.

“Yeah, but not that  _ hard.” _

Rachel giggles again.

“So why didn’t you tell him, Cassie?” Rachel asks.

“Yeah, why?” Ezekiel grins at his roommate. Castiel glares daggers at both of them.

“I was embarrassed,” He rolled his eyes.

“Embarrassed of  _ Dean?” _

“No,” Castiel has to resist the urge to snarl, “I was embarrassed because I knew you’d harp on and  _ on  _ about how you got me to date a human—which you did, by the way—either that, or you’d react terribly—which you did, by the way—”

“How did you react terribly?” Rachel turns to Ezekiel.

“I didn’t,” The other angel rolls his eyes. “Cassie’s exaggerating—”

“Am I?” Castiel frowns.

“Yeah! I just wanted to make sure you weren’t, I don’t know, taking advantage of Dean—”

“ _ Obviously  _ I wasn’t—”

“Who was the girl?” Dean asks, interrupting and changing the subject. He seems a little frustrated. “Who was the girl you puked on?”

“Oh, right,” Ezekiel shakes his head. “Aw, shit—I don’t know if I want to tell you!”

“Will I know her?”

“Cas definitely will,” Ezekiel gestures to his roommate.

“Who?”

“Uh—”

“C’mon, ‘Zeke, you’ve already told us what happened,” Dean grins, “what harm is her name gonna do?”

“Fine,” Ezekiel grumbles, “do you remember Katie Alvers?”

_ “Katie?”  _ Castiel repeats. He can’t stop himself from laughing, however reluctantly. “You puked on Katie Alvers?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

“Poor girl. Has she told anyone?”

“I dunno,” Ezekiel shrugs. “I hope not. And I don’t think she has—at least, it hasn’t come back to bite me on the ass, yet. So.”

Dean snorts.

“So who’s this girl you’ve been sleeping with, while we’re on the topic of your hookups?”

”What do you mean?” Ezekiel frowns.

“Don’t pretend like we haven’t noticed,” Dean grins, “you’ve been spending  _ so  _ many nights out of you and Cas’s place. Where’ve you been, ‘Zeke? Who’ve you been  _ with?” _

“No one,” Ezekiel replies. “It doesn’t matter.”

_ “‘Zeke—” _

“Okay,” Ezekiel starts, “never have I ever given someone stitches.”

“ _ ‘Zeke— _ ”

“Dean, we’re moving on,” Ezekiel shakes his head, “and if memory serves me correctly,  _ you  _ have to drink at that.”

Dean sighs and drinks.

“Who?” Rachel asks, trouble lining her face.

“Just some assholes,” Dean shakes his head, “it’s not a big deal.”

“Just  _ three  _ assholes—”

“‘Zeke—”

“Never have I ever… given a lap dance,” Castiel grins.

Dean drinks again.

“ _ Seriously?”  _ Ezekiel snorts.  _ “Who?  _ And  _ why?!” _

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean shakes his head, “and obviously ‘cause they wanted to see me dance, duh—”

“Okay, what about this one,” Rachel starts, “been cheated on.”

Dean drinks again.

“Woah, Dean—you’ve done  _ everything!”  _

“Not everything, ‘Zeke.” Dean shakes his head.

“Who cheated on you?”

“An asshole,” Dean deadpans.

“Why?”

The human sniffs.

“Guess I wasn’t enough for them.”

“Dean—”

“No, I mean it,” Dean shrugs, looking away. “That’s why people cheat, isn’t it? They want something else, something more, and you’re not giving it. So, they cheat.”

“Boy or girl?”

“What?” Dean squints over to Ezekiel.

“Was it a boy or girl, who cheated on you?”

Dean looks at the ground.

“Guy.” He answers, after a moment. “It was—” He cuts himself off. “Like I said, just some guy. An asshole. For a whole bunch of reasons, he was an asshole.” Castiel stares at Dean, troubled. The human doesn’t look back up at him.

“Here’s another,” Ezekiel seems to sense that it’s time to move on, “never have I ever wanted a friend’s boyfriend or girlfriend.”

Rachel ducks her head and drinks, embarrassed. Ezekiel grins.

“Cassie, you should be drinking, too!”

Castiel squints at his roommate.

“Why should I be drinking?”

“You liked Dean, when he was dating Gadreel.”

“Gadreel isn’t a friend.”

“You’re friend _ ly,”  _ Ezekiel points out. “Or at least  _ were,  _ until you stole his boyfriend.”

“I’m not a thing,” Dean frowns, “I can’t be ‘stolen’, and Gadreel wasn’t my boyfriend.”

“Fine,” Ezekiel mumbles. “But I still think I’m right.”

“Okay, here’s one,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “never have I ever set up my friend with someone to make my other friend jealous.”

“Cas, don’t be like that—”

“Wait,” Rachel frowns at Ezekiel. “You did that?”

“I think we’re getting distracted, here,” Ezekiel shakes his head, “Rachel still hasn’t told us who’s boyfriend she crushed on—”

“Or girlfriend,” Rachel frowns.

“Fine,” Ezekiel concedes, “or girlfriend.”

“Not that it’s important,” Castiel shakes his head, “you need to tell us about the time you set Dean up with Gadreel to make me jealous.”

“Well, you pretty much just summed it up,” Ezekiel shrugs. “And that’s all there is to it, so—”

“It was a dick move.”

“No,” Ezekiel shakes his head, “I was trying to make Dean happy, and I thought he’d either end up with you or with Gadreel—”

“Guys,” Dean rolls his eyes, “let’s move on, yeah?”

“Fine,” Castiel grumbles. He softens the moment that Dean’s hand slips into his.

“You still got me, remember?” Dean leans in close to Castiel, mumbling the words quietly. “Endgame, and all that?” Castiel’s eyes feel suddenly heavy. He turns to nose at the side of Dean’s face.

“Here’s one,” Dean turns out to the rest of the group, but Castiel stays close, wrapping his arms around the human, “played spin the bottle.”

Rachel and Ezekiel both drink. Dean grins and sips his beer.

“Rachel!”

“What?” Rachel frowns up at Castiel.

“Cas, you have to drink,” Ezekiel points at his roommate, “you’ve  _ definitely  _ played—”

“Rachel  _ when  _ have you played spin the bottle? And who with?”

“Oh, fuck off—” She rolls her eyes. “I’m  _ eighteen,  _ Cassie—”

“Tried absinthe,” Dean says quickly, changing the subject again.

Castiel drinks. So does Ezekiel.

“What?” Rachel frowns at her brother. “You jump down my throat for playing spin the bottle, when you—”

“When did you try it?” Ezekiel asks.

“Freshman year.” Castiel answers. “Bela—”

“Wait,  _ Bela  _ gave you absinthe?” Ezekiel asks. “That’s  _ so  _ unfair! She’s never shared any with  _ me—” _

“She only had it by chance, Ezekiel—”

“Wait, is Bela the girl you’re fucking, Ezekiel?” Dean asks, eyes wide.

“Dean, not now—”

“She is  _ so  _ your type—”

“How in the hell would you know what my type is?!”

“When did you try absinthe, Ezekiel?” Castiel asks. Ezekiel shrugs.

“Uh, like, a few years back? We were on a family holiday in Warsaw—”

“You tried absinthe on a  _ family holiday?” _

“I fucked off to be on my own for a bit,” Ezekiel rolls his eyes at Dean’s interruption, “it was late, my parents were back at the hotel, so naturally, I wandered the streets and found some friends. I don’t think there’s actually a legal drinking age in Poland? But I was eighteen, and it was Europe, anyway, so it hardly mattered—and they had absinthe and some black vodka or something—”

“ _ Black  _ vodka?”

“I know, right?” Ezekiel grins at Rachel. “Fucking terrifying, I think to  _ really  _ put teens off drinking they should make  _ all  _ alcohol black, ‘cause it really puts things into perspective, but… I had like, one shot of the absinthe, a couple of the vodka, and that was it. I was just—” He makes a gesture with his hand, “ _ gone.  _ Passed out until about six the next morning. I was like,  _ what the fuck?  _ It was  _ freezing  _ cold, think I nearly lost my fingers, honestly, I made my way back to the hotel and had the hottest shower I could without melting my skin off, drank about three litres of water then went to sleep. Woke up at twelve needing the biggest piss the world had ever seen.” He grins. “It was great.”

“Your life is ridiculous,” Dean laughs, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” Ezekiel admits sheepishly, “sometimes it sure feels that way.”

“Okay, never have I ever… slept at work.”

Dean and Castiel both drink, Dean grinning sheepishly.

“When?” Ezekiel asks.

“Only in Bobby’s garage—it was the saturday morning after a party, pretty crazy, and I was just—”

“Hungover?”

“That and exhausted.” Dean chuckles. “What about you, Cas?”

“I worked in a coffee shop for a couple of years, and in my last months at high school I was working pretty hard,” Castiel replies honestly. “My boss had sent me to go check stock, or something, and I just…” He laughs. “Fell asleep. I think I was overworked.”

Ezekiel snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Typical.”

“Had a fake ID,” Rachel says.

Castiel and Ezekiel both drink.

“Really?” Rachel asks, grinning.

“Yeah,” Ezekiel chuckles. “Obviously I don’t need it _now—_ and Cassie won’t need it in what—two days time?”

Castiel chuckles.

“Yeah, two days.” He confirms.

“Two days until Cassie turns twenty-one!” Ezekiel exclaims, placing his hands on Rachel’s shoulders and rocking her—she bursts out into a fit of giggles. “Two days, two days! Who’s excited?”

“Me,” Dean grins, bumping shoulders with Castiel.

“I hope  you’ve both got your presents ready,” Ezekiel gestures to Rachel and Dean.

“Hope you’ve got  _ yours,”  _ Dean returns.

“Of course,” Ezekiel grins. “Cassie’s my best friend, how could I forget?”

“Cas is my  _ boyfriend.” _

“I win,” Rachel beams, “Castiel is my brother.”

“Win?” Ezekiel raises his eyebrows. “Rach, it’s not a  _ competition.” _

“If it was, I’d win.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, and picks up a stick to prod at the fire, before adding a few more.

“We’re running out of firewood,” He states. “C’mon, Ezekiel, let’s grab some more.”

Ezekiel grumbles but obliges him, getting up after Castiel.

 

…

 

“It sure was nice of Ezekiel to invite us all,” Rachel smiles at the retreating figures of Zeke and Castiel. Dean glances at her and smiles.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, finding himself smiling, too. “Definitely.”

“I mean, saying that I could come along, too,” Rachel’s expression softens. “He really didn’t have to.”

“That’s true,” Dean agrees. “But ‘Zeke’s a good guy.” he prods at the fire again, witching it spit. “Probably knew you’d be alone if Cas spent the summer away from you. That would’ve sucked.”

“it would have,” Rachel nods.

“Also,” Dean grins, “he thinks you hate him. So I guess this is his attempt at winning you over?”

“He thinks I  _ hate  _ him?” Rachel asks, frowning. Something about her expression seems hurt.

“You don’t?” Dean raises his eyebrows at her.

_ “No,”  _ Rachel shakes her head. “Not at all. Well, I mean, I—”

Dean snorts as she falters.

“Whatever you say, Rach.”

“I don’t,” She frowns, words turning firm. “I just... “ She sighs, resigned. “It’s a long story.”

“You find him annoying,” Dean says, voice half-inquisitive, “that’s what I always thought?”

Rachel makes a non-committal noise at the back of her throat.

“No more annoying than anyone else…”

“You mean you find him no more annoying than anybody else finds him? Or that you find him to be no more annoying than anyone else you know?”

Rachel bites her lip. “I don’t know,” She laughs. “All I was saying was that I thought it was nice of him to let me come along, too. That’s all.” She shakes her head, looking away. “I shouldn’t have brought it up…”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, “what is it? What’s the ‘long story’?”

Rachel sighs, drawing her knees up to her chin.

“Ezekiel told you I hate him?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Dean nods. “So why do you hate him?”

“I don’t,” Rachel sighs, shaking her head. “Or I guess—I used to be kind of cold to him, but—”

“But what?”

“When did he say that I  _ hated  _ him?”

“Around January. The first time I met you. Before me and Cas were dating. Why?”

“I guess that makes a bit more sense.” Rachel shrugs, then sighs again. She glances up at Dean, concerned. “So did he say why he thought I hated him?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “Only that you found him annoying, but—”

Rachel worries at her lip.

“Can you promise not to tell anyone this, Dean?”

“Uh, sure?” Dean asks, raising his eyebrows at the angel.

“And I mean  _ anyone— _ not even Cas—actually,  _ especially  _ not Cas.”

“Right,” Dean frowns, nodding his head. “I promise…”

“I, uh—” Rachel flushes. Dean waits for her to finish and patiently sips his beer. “I used to have a crush on Ezekiel.

“Wait,  _ what?”  _ Dean spits out his drink.  _ “Seriously?!” _

“Yes, seriously,” Rachel answers, “and keep your voice down—”

“You had a crush on  _ Ezekiel?” _

Rachel blushes.

“Yes, I did—”

“Does he  _ know  _ this?”

“Well maybe if you stopped interrupting me, Dean, you’d find out,” Rachel rolls her eyes, pinching Dean.

“Sorry,” He grins. “Go on?”

“It was back when I first met him—I was fifteen, so don’t—I don’t know—”

“Judge you?” Dean smirks.

“Don’t interrupt, for one thing,” Rachel hisses. “I was… ugh,” She sighs. “Maybe I should just start from the beginning.”

“I mean, weren’t you going to start there, anyway?” Dean asks, frowning. His arm is pinched sharply again. “Ow!”

“So anyway,” Rachel presses her lips together, “when I first met Ezekiel, it was when I was saying goodbye to Cassie—I was fifteen, I’d come to help him unpack his things, and obviously Ezekiel was there and was…” Her cheeks flame, and she rubs the back of her neck. “Funny. I don’t know. I just liked him—”

“I’m not saying it’s ridiculous to like him at  _ first,”  _ Dean points out. “Like, he’s nice looking and funny, so like, an immediate crush is understandable—but then he starts actually  _ talking—” _

“I know he’s ridiculous and annoying, Dean,” Rachel softens, letting out a huff of laughter. “That’s not exactly breaking news. “But he was nice, and funny, like you said—and I guess I mistook his genuine friendliness for something more,” She giggles, cheeks flaming again. “I want to make it clear that I see how silly it all was, now—I was fifteen, and he was eighteen, and me mistaking his friendliness for him liking me back was  _ obviously  _ stupid—”

“I’ve done stupider things,” Dean laughs, honestly.

“Is stupider a word?”

“That’d be another one of those stupid things,” He winks. Rachel’s face turns warm and amused for a moment, instead of just self-deprecating.

“Anyway—obviously he noticed that I liked him. I used to come and stay on campus with Cassie a lot, and I still do—but yeah, Cas would always find me a spare place to stay, if Ezekiel was staying on campus, or I’d stay in his bed if he wasn’t. But from the times he  _ was  _ there, I guess ‘cause he doesn’t really get along with his parents, I ended up spending a lot of time with him and Cas. So yeah, he noticed that I had this crush, and was like—” She rubs her face, groaning. “Oh, this is so embarrassing—”

“It’s fine,” Dean shakes his head, suppressing his smile.

“—He was so  _ nice  _ about it,” Rachel groans, “he was like ‘ _ you’re fifteen, I’m eighteen, and you’re Cassie’s sister, I’d be a creep to like you back, an even  _ bigger _ creep as well as a dick to act on it if I did, and I’d be an asshole to lead you on by not saying we didn’t have a chance,’”  _ She sighs, running a hand through her blonde hair. “And then he was like, ‘ _ so this is me saying that you’ve gotta stop, because obviously nothing is gonna happen between us, because I’d be an asshole if it did and it’d be taking advantage of you’— _ and he went to so much effort to say that it wasn’t anything to do with me, trying to make sure I didn’t feel sad about it, but—” Rachel shakes her head. “But, I was fifteen. Of  _ course  _ I was gonna take it personally. So I got sad, then I got mad, and obviously none of it was his fault—but yeah, I guess I kind of started hating him. And I didn’t make it obvious, because otherwise Cas would’ve noticed—but you know Ezekiel. He’s—”

“A mess?” Dean grins.

“—Empathetic,” Rachel replies, laughing, though rolling her eyes. “Good at picking up on things. So of course he picked up on me being cold to him. And then he started avoiding me, by staying out when I was round—”

“Which is why he insisted on the two of us sitting on a lawn and talking, after Christmas break—”

“Probably,” Rachel nods. She sighs again. “I feel so bad about it, now—like, I grew up a bit—it was _three years ago,_ after all—and I tried really hard to make it obvious that I was over it, that he’d definitely done the right thing, but I guess he never got the message. I should’ve just told him. And now,” She sighs, “he thinks I hate him, and I don’t, and it’s worse because he was so nice to me about all of it, and _tried_ _so_ _hard_ to be nice about all of it, and… Ugh,” She groans. “What a mess. At least he didn’t tell Cassie. Or you.”

“But you’ve just told me,” Dean frowns.

“Yeah, and it’s fine if  _ I  _ tell you,” Rachel says, as though this ought to have been obvious, “and now that I’ve told you, you’ve got to  _ swear on your life  _ you won’t tell Castiel. Are we clear?”

“We’re clear,” Dean grins.

“Good.”

“Quick question, though,” Dean chuckles softly,

“What?”

“Do you still like him?”

“Dean.” Rachel glares at the human.

“No, no, I know you’re embarrassed by it all, but, like—if he came up to you now, and was like,  _ ‘I don’t think it would be creepy now that you’re eighteen, and I really like you, d’you want to give a go?’ _ —what would you say?”

“Well first of all, he wouldn’t say any of that,” Rachel frowns, “because he  _ didn’t _ like me back.” 

“Didn’t. Past tense.” Dean grins. “But what if he does, now?”

“Fuck off,” Rachel rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me into the same mess I got myself into, three years ago.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean raises his hands, “but I don’t think you should give up hope.”

“There is no hope,” Rachel squints, “as in— _ God,  _ Dean, you’re so annoying—”

“No hope?” Ezekiel frowns, dropping the sticks he’s collected on the ground. “What’re you guys talking about?”

Rachel glares at Dean.

“Game of Thrones,” He answers. Rachel’s expression softens, and she smiles at him gratefully. He returns the look softly.

“Oh, right,” Ezekiel nods distractedly, putting wood on the flames and watching the fire lick at its new fuel. “Fires are so pretty,” He grins, sitting down. Dean smirks over to Rachel, who giggles and shakes her head, looking away. “Anyway, Rach, Dean’s right.”

“What?” She frowns, looking back at Ezekiel. Dean can almost hear her stomach churning.

“Don’t give up hope.” He prods at the fire, “I mean, I’m only on season five, and I’ve only  _ read  _ book one— _ don’t tell me anything,”  _ He hisses at Dean, “but like, even after the Red Wedding. There’s still hope. I guess the whole white walker situation is a bit less promising, but in terms of the  _ politics—” _

Dean has burst out laughing again.

“What’s so funny?” Ezekiel asks, frowning over to Dean.

“Nothin’,” He shakes his head. “I’m gonna go inside to grab some blankets.”

“I’ll go, too,” Ezekiel stands, following Dean just as Castiel arrives back at the fire.

Back in the house, Ezekiel piles three blankets in Dean’s arms.

“Figured you and Cas would want to share,” He winks at Dean, whose lips twitch upward, however reluctantly, into an affectionate smile at his friend’s teasing. “You wanna grab some snacks, too?”

“Sure,” Dean nods, as Ezekiel rummages through the cupboards.

“Listen, Dean,” Ezekiel glances back to him a moment, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about somethin’.”

“Oh?” Dean frowns. “What?”

“I’m not—I mean, you have no way of—uh—” He scratches his neck uncomfortably. “Obviously this isn’t me trying to get at you, or anything, but—could you stop bringing up the whole, ‘ _ Zeke-who’re-you-sleeping-with, _ thing? Please? I just—” Ezekiel grimaces. Dean frowns. “I’d just prefer it if you didn’t.”

“Why?” Dean asks, though he suspects he already knows the answer.

“I just,” Ezekiel shrugs, obviously uncomfortable, “I guess it’s a little inappropriate…”

“Inappropriate?” Dean repeats, incredulous.

“Yeah, inappropriate,” Ezekiel confirms, “around Rachel. I just don’t think it’s cool. She’s younger than us, y’know? And—”

“She’s eighteen, ‘Zeke,” Dean smirks. “That’s one year younger than me.”

“Still,” Ezekiel frowns, “I’d appreciate it all the same…” He sighs. “Just—please stop, okay? It’s not cool—I’d just like it if you didn’t.” 

Dean snorts.

“You don’t need to keep covering it up, ‘Zeke.”

“What?”

“She told me.”

“What?”

“Just now,” Dean explains. “She told me what happened when she was fifteen, said how you tried to let her down easy—”

Ezekiel pulls a worried expression.

“She did?”

“Yeah,” Dean laughs. “She doesn’t hate you, anymore, by the way. She hasn’t for ages. She uh—she says she knows you did the right thing, even if it didn’t feel like that to her at the time. And that she appreciates it.”

“Oh,” Ezekiel nods distractedly, breathing in deep. “Thank fuck,” He laughs. “She doesn’t hate me any more?”

“Nope.” Dean shakes his head. “Unless you give her  _ new  _ reasons to dislike you.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Ezekiel laughs honestly. “God, I felt like such an asshole, at the time,” He sighs. “Rejecting her like that. And she was a good kid, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean laughs.

“I think I did it wrong,” Ezekiel sighs, rubbing his face. “I think I hurt her feelings, and I tried to be nice about it—”

“Honestly, I don’t think there’s any way you could’ve rejected her and  _ not  _ hurt her feelings,” Dean replies. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right thing to do, anyway.”

Ezekiel glances at Dean and smiles.

“Y’know, I’ve really missed you.”

“You’ve said,” Dean chuckles. Ezekiel smiles wistfully, picking up as much food as seems possible for the angel to carry. “You need any help with that?” Dean asks, grinning.

“M’good, thanks,” Ezekiel uses his chin to hold onto a pack of oreos. Dean snorts again. “You’re on blankets, I’m on munch.”

“Munch?” Dean repeats, laughing, and opening and closing the door for himself and Ezekiel as they head back outside. “Is that what they’re calling it, nowadays?”

“It is,” Ezekiel repeats, very seriously, before winking at Dean. “Love you, man.” He grins.

“You’ve turned all soft today, Zeke,” Dean chuckles. “What the hell’s happened?”

“I simple ‘I love you, too’, would suffice.”

“I love you too, buddy.” Dean winks. “You happy?”

“I feel like you just drowned my soul in honey, Dean.”

“That’s a weird fucking metaphor—”

“Not a metaphor,” Ezekiel shakes his head as he drops all the snacks by the fire. “Simile. I said  _ ‘like’ _ ”

“Nerd,” Dean smirks.

“Dick.”

 

…

 

Cas has drunk half the bottle of spiced rum. Ezekiel has drunk the other half. He and his roommate went to collect one last, massive round of firewood, in the hope that it would more than last them the rest of the night, and now Ezekiel lies by the fire, eating more smores than should be possible and talking very drunkenly to a much more sober Rachel, who hugs her knees to her chest and has her blanket wrapped tight around her, giggling at the other angel’s words.

Dean has had eight beers and has had to go inside to piss multiple times. Castiel has now dragged him out to the sea, abandoning his shoes and socks by the fire.

“Cas,” Dean laughs, stumbling over his feet and tugging Castiel back, “Cas, I’m not going in the water—”

“You’re not?” Castiel asks, stopping in his running towards the waves and spinning the pair around, tangling his hands tighter with Dean’s before pressing his forehead to the humans.

“Nope,” Dean confirms, giggling. “No chance.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause it’s  _ freezing,  _ dumbass, that’s why not.”

Castiel spins the human and tugs at his hands again.

“Then you stay on the sand,” He grins, “and  _ I’ll  _ go in the sea, and you’ll watch me having fun, and—”

Dean pulls Castiel to a stop. The angel turns round, about to protest, but watches as Dean toes off his vans, not bothering to untie them, then takes off his socks, stuffing them in each shoe, before hurling everything back towards the fire. Castiel has no idea if they land even close, but he guesses that this will be tomorrow’s problem—for now, all he can do is beam at the human in front of him, stepping close and pressing his forehead up against Dean’s again.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” He murmurs, nose bumping against Dean’s. The human snorts and pushes Castiel away, cheeks flaming.

“Have I ever told you how soft you are?” Dean chuckles. Castiel is about to drag him close for a claiming kiss, but Dean has ducked down, kneeling on the sand.

“Dean—” Castiel stammers, face and neck heating, “what’re you—”

“Calm down, you horny bastard,” Dean grins, shaking his head. “I’m rolling up your jeans. Y’know, so you don’t get  _ soaking  _ fucking wet.”

“Oh,” Castiel laughs shortly. Dean glances up at him and winks.

“You thought I was going to give you head on the beach didn’t you?”

Castiel winds his hand through Dean’s hair as the human rolls up his own pants.

“I mean, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

Dean stands and kisses Castiel, hard.

“Kinky bastard,” He grins again, before dragging Castiel towards the sea.

“Only for you,” Castiel chuckles, squeezing Dean’s hand.

“So I guess that’s meant to make me feel flattered, huh?” Dean laughs.

“It’s the truth,” Castiel shrugs, “whether you feel flattered by it or not.”

“I refuse to believe that,” Dean takes hold of Castiel’s other hand and spins to face him, backing into the water. “ _ Fuck,”  _ He gasps, eyes widening, holding tight to Castiel’s hands. “That’s  _ freezing!” _

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, y’think?” Dean raises his eyebrows at Castiel, and tugs, hard, at the angel, making him stumble into the water after Dean.

“Shit!” Castiel exclaims, pinpricks rising up along his arms. He tries to pull back, but Dean holds on too tight. “Dean!” He exclaims, but he can’t sound angry, because affectionate laughter has climbed its way up from his chest and now tumbles from his lips despite his attempts to be frustrated at the human.

“I told you!” Dean grins. “And did you listen?”

“I want to go back to the fire,” Castiel stumbles close enough to Dean that their chests are pressed together. He watches Dean’s pulse flutter below his jaw. “It’s too cold.”

“Nah, sorry, Cas,” Dean grins, despite the fact that his pupils have dilated at Castiel being pressed so close to him, despite the fact that Castiel felt human’s heart trip over itself when Castiel pressed his body flush to Dean’s. “You dragged me all the way out here, now we’re staying.”

Castiel grumbles, pressing his face into Dean’s neck, breathing the human in, breathing this moment in, under the stars and moon, in the dark waters, the sun now set, warmth from the rum curling itself in Castiel’s body.

“I adore you,” He murmurs, eyes fluttering closed.

He can still make out Dean’s blush in the starlight.

“Yeah, you’re alright, too,” Dean attempts to grin, but the breath catching in his throat gives him away, and Castiel presses kisses up his neck before catching Dean’s lips in his own.

“I adore you,” Castiel murmurs again, against Dean’s mouth, and Dean moans. The sound makes Castiel curl his toes into the wet sand beneath his feet. “I adore you,” He says again, and Dean’s hands move to fist at his t-shirt and hair.

“Again,” Dean mumbles against Castiel, who feels heat spill, heavy, in his abdomen, as his heart twitches inside his chest. He sighs out into the night air.

“I adore you. I adore you, Dean.”

Dean moves to press his face into the curve of Castiel’s neck. He beams into it, sighing, breath white-hot against Castiel’s skin, so different to the cool night air all around them, and the cold water lapping at their calves.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” Dean pulls back, hands slipping back down to take a hold of Castiel’s. “I don’t—” He laughs, walking backwards, tugging Castiel further into the water. “You’re just—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head, beaming.

“I’m just?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human, squeezing his hands. “Just what?”

“You—I adore you, too, Cas.” Dean sighs. “And you’ve made me soft, too—so that’s all your fault.”

“Oh it is, is it?” Castiel asks, chuckling. Dean pulls at his hands again so that they are both spinning each other in the water.

“Definitely,” Dean stumbles, a little drunkenly. Castiel’s head feels giddy. Dean only spins them harder, holding so tight to the angel’s hands that his knuckles turn white and laughing in a new, childish way that Castiel hasn’t ever heard before—at least not from the human. His heart hurts with it, but it also sings, and the look on Dean’s face in the pale moonlight—free, happy in a way he didn’t know the human could feel—has him forgetting how to think, forgetting the nearly eight years he spent closed off to the world, the years where trust was a risk and loving anybody other than his sister was more danger than it was worth.

Maybe it’s these thoughts that make him stumble and trip. Maybe, and more likely, it’s the half-bottle of rum that he drank over the course of the night. But whichever it is, it hardly matters, because in all their spinning and in all Castiel’s thinking of how the human in front of him is the man he wants to spend the rest of his life with, he has fallen, hard, into the sea.

“Shit—” He gasps, and then a freezing wave hits him on the back of the head, and he’s back under, the harsh tang of saltwater in his mouth, making him gag. “Fuck—” He gasps again, craning his head out of the water and attempting to clamber to his feet—which is easier said than done, he thinks, as all the alcohol seems to have caught up with him, and that combined with shock and freezing water, as  _ well  _ as waves…

Dean is near pissing himself with laughter. Castiel can hear it over the waves and his own curses, it echoes out into the night and he scowls up at the human—but only for a moment, because in the next second, Dean’s laughter and drunkenness, along with an unexpectedly big wave, all hit him at once, too, and he falls into the water just as Castiel did.

“Fuck!” Dean exclaims, and now Castiel is the one caught in uncontrollable fits of laughter. “Don’t—Cas! Don’t make fun of me—!”

“You made fun of me first,” Castiel grins, cackling. He manages to stand, and holds his hand out to Dean, who considers it for a moment before taking it.

But Castiel isn’t able to help the human up, because Dean has pulled him back down, and he falls again, headfirst into the sea, the human’s laughter echoing in his ears.

_ “Dick,”  _ Castiel sputters, splashing Dean. “Dick!” He splashes again, shivering furiously, but Dean only giggles and splashes back.

“Nah, Cas, it’s  _ karma.” _

“That’s not what karma is,” Castiel hisses, splashing Dean again. “ _ Asshole.”  _ He spits. “Ass _ butt.” _

“Assbutt?” Dean repeats, bursting out giggling again. “The hell kind of insult is that, Cas?”

“One that suits you,” Castiel grumbles, pushing Dean, who only giggles and pushes Cas back, splashing him with freezing water. “It’s too cold!” Castiel exclaims, shivering.

“I know!” Dean laughs. “I  _ said  _ it would be!”

“This was a terrible idea!” Castiel half-laughs, half-shouts. Dean splashes him again, grinning impishly. “Stop splashing! I’m already  _ soaking—” _

“Exactly,” Dean laughs. “All is lost anyway! You’re wet, it’s done, there’s no harm in getting  _ more  _ wet—”

Castiel cups his hands and drops their contents on Dean’s head. Dean gasps, pushing Castiel away and stumbling to his feet as the angel laughs, rising clumsily after him.

“God!” Dean laughs—he can’t even stay angry at Castiel, a thought which has the angel beaming. “We’re gonna get pneumonia—get outta the water, dumbass—”

“We’re not gonna get  _ pneumonia,”  _ Castiel grins, following Dean as he runs—or rather, trips—back up the beach. “Stop exaggerating.” His knees are knocking together with cold.

“I’m not exaggerating,” Dean grumbles, but the hand slipping in Castiel’s lets the angel know he’s off the hook. “If I die because of you, you know I’m gonna kill you, right?”

Castiel grins.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a university application test in a few weeks and will need to dedicate a lot of time to prepare for that, so I'm sorry if updates become slightly irregular again - I'm also struggling with writers block for all the stories I'm writing right now (which obviously is not ideal lmao) so if anyone would be prepared to help me out with that (it'll probably be as small as just talking through what'll happen in the next chapters) I'd be really grateful, either here or on tumblr (my url is norestwithoutlove, just drop me a message)
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this! Next chapter we get some hard fluff and obliviousness, and the chapter after that will probably be the last of their summer together.
> 
> Please leave any comments you can think of, I really need the motivation right now, haha. Thanks for reading :)


	24. Moon and Sand

 

They lie back beside the fire. Rachel and Ezekiel have long since gone back inside to the rooms, Ezekiel just as wasted as Castiel, Rachel a lot more sober. Dean and Castiel stripped the outside layers of their clothing and laid everything down by the fire to dry, feeding it a little more wood, Dean finding his abandoned shoes from earlier, before Castiel wraps both of them up in all three blankets.

The angel watches the way Dean’s eyes catch the light of the fire, flecks of gold sparking with more beauty than Castiel thinks possible as the human stares at the flames. He picks up another beer without looking away and hands it to Castiel.

“For warmth,” He grins, staring at the flames. “Let’s get even _more_ drunk.”

Castiel laughs, shaking his head. He wraps his wing, which has long since dried during the run back to the fire, and in being sat next to the flames, around Dean’s perfect body, which still shivers a little with cold.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dean’s smile is lopsided, he doesn’t look away from the fire. Castiel chuckles softly and bumps his shoulder against the human. “So you’re not gonna drink?” He asks, finally glancing over to Castiel.

“Feel like I’d puke if I did…” Castiel mumbles, slipping his head onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean snorts and slips his hand through the angel’s hair.

“Don’t wanna do an Ezekiel,” He grins.

Castiel barks out a laugh. His eyes crinkle at their corners. He presses a kiss to the side of Dean’s face, and the human turns his head to allow Castiel more access. Before he knows it, both of them are a mess of blankets, Castiel lying on top of Dean, wings enveloping both of them as they make out. He can taste the salt from the sea on Dean, and it’s gorgeous.

Castiel beams and pulls back after a while, Dean whining into the air between them. The angel’s heart is bleeding sunlight.

“You think you’ve warmed up?” He mumbles, inches away from Dean’s lips. Dean huffs out an amused breath and Castiel sits back up, tugging the human up with him.

“Think so,” Dean confirms. He checks their clothing to see if it has dried. “Pants are still wet,” He sighs. “Shirt’s okay, though.”

“Don’t care,” Castiel shakes his head.

“You just want me to stay shirtless, huh?” Dean grins over to the angel. Castiel’s chest feels warm.

“Well, yeah,” He frowns. “Are you surprised?”

“No,” Dean admits. “You’re a damn horny bastard. I learned that right after our first date.”

“I only sucked your dick—”

“And then after that, you took like, _two_ out of the three _hours_ that Benny gave us to actually get onto fucking me—”

Castiel pulls Dean on top of him, glaring at the human.

“Shut up,” He grumbles. “You enjoyed it—”

“You know, it’s difficult for you to sound pissed off with me when you just pulled me into straddling you—”

“Shut up,” Castiel grumbles again, lying back and pulling the human down to kiss him.

“But Cas,” Dean grins against the angel’s mouth, “I thought you _liked_ it when I talked—”

Castiel raises his hips to grind them against Dean’s.

“Nope,” The human pulls back. “We’re _not_ having beach sex. Not when your sister, Ezekiel, _and_ Ezekiel’s parents could look out a window any time and see us getting it on.”

Castiel looks up at Dean.

“And those puppy-dog eyes aren’t gonna work on me, either.”

Castiel grumbles, turning his head to the side and looking away.

“You were happy with _making out_ on the beach,” He points out.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms. “Making out. Not fucking. Not humping. Anyway, imagine the _sand,”_ Dean wrinkles his nose, grimacing. “Fucking nasty. I want no part in that, thanks.”

“But _Dean—”_

“Geez, Cas, you’re like a fucking _animal,”_ Dean giggles, getting up, off Castiel, and pulling his shirt on. He grabs another beer and opens it, taking a long drink as Castiel stares up at him. “Don’t give me that look,” He chuckles. “You’re such a kid, seriously.” He sits down beside Castiel. “I feel like I’ve _spoiled_ you.”

“No more than I’ve spoiled you,” Castiel points out, finally smiling at the flush this comment elicits from Dean’s cheeks.

“You haven’t spoiled me…” Dean mumbles, blushing. Castiel grins and presses a kiss to the human’s lips.

“I haven’t?” He asks, frowning. Dean glares at Castiel and shakes his head.

“No.”

Castiel falls a little more in love with Dean at the indignant, pouty look on the human’s face.

“I _really_ haven’t?” Castiel asks, feigning concern. He moves his hands, one to run softly through Dean’s hair, the other to draw delicate patterns around the human’s naval. “That won’t do at all,” He shakes his head, leaning forward to kiss at Dean’s lips so softly the touch is hardly even there. “You _deserve_ to be spoiled.” Dean lets out a slight whimper into the fraction of night air between their lips. It must be unintentional, because his cheeks flame and he seems to struggle to keep his eyes trained on Castiel’s.

“Cas…” The human’s voice comes out raw and strained.

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel asks innocently. One of his hands has moves to trail up and down the inside of Dean’s thigh, and the human’s pretty eyes flutter closed at the touch.

“I… I—I maybe wouldn’t mind so much, if you wanted to fuck on the beach.”

Castiel laughs warmly. He can’t stop himself. He bumps his forehead against Dean’s.

“That’s sweet, Dean,” He chuckles—the human flushes deeper, frowning, and nudges at Castiel with his nose indignantly. “But I think you were right about the sand thing. And about the risk of us being spotted.”

Dean pouts and moves away from Castiel, lying down.

“Oh, come on, Dean,” Castiel bites down on a smirk. “Don’t be like that.”

Dean glares at him and takes a long drink from his beer. Castiel snorts and grabs one too, opening it.

“So you’ve decided to drink, huh?” Dean asks after a silence.

“So you’ve decided to talk, huh?” Castiel retorts.

“You’re the worst…” Dean grumbles, moving so that his side rests snugly against Castiel’s.

“I’m glad you think so.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but a smile twitches at his lips, despite himself.

“The very worst,” Dean corrects himself. But he pushes Castiel into shifting his body and places his head on the angel’s lap, staring at the fire once again. Castiel’s hand moves to run slowly through Dean’s hair. “And I don’t know why I put up with you,” He mumbles. Castiel can’t help but laugh, nails tracing Dean’s scalp soft enough that it has the human shivering and nearly purring in his lap.

“I’m glad you do,” He states, voice gentle. He stares into the fire too, now. Dean awkwardly takes another sip of his beer from Castiel’s lap.

“Yeah…” The human mumbles happily.

“I’m glad I finally got up the courage to kiss you,” Castiel sighs. His fingers carry on weaving their way through Dean’s hair.

“You say that like it only just happened, Cas,” Dean laughs. “We’ve been dating for _ages.”_

“Not for as long as I’d have liked…” Castiel shakes his head.

“And how long _would_ you have liked?”

“Since I first met you, I don’t know.”

Dean snorts.

“Bull _shit.”_

“It’s not,” Castiel frowns.

“It is. You hated me,” Dean laughs.

“How many times, Dean? I didn’t hate _you—”_

“Yeah, it’s whatever, Cas,” Dean grins, shaking his head. He rolls, so that he is looking up at Castiel, head still resting on the angel’s lap. “I’m glad things happened the way they did. I wouldn’t change them.”

“Really?” Castiel frowns.

“Really,” Dean nods. He finds the angel’s hand and weaves their fingers together. “You’ve made me so happy. And you keep on making me so happy.”

Castiel sighs softly. He moves his hand to place it over the human’s heart. He can feel its steady, contented beating into his palm. He counts the seconds between each thud.

“You make me very happy, too.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Dean glances up at him with amusement, but Castiel can’t return the look. His heart feels too tender. He can only stare at Dean and think about how much the human means to him. He moves his hand from Dean’s chest and grazes it against the human’s jaw, then across his cheek. Dean lets out a breathless little contented sigh that makes Castiel ache for him even more. He cups Dean’s face with his hand, untangling his other one from Dean’s to wrap a blanket round the human. He grabs the human’s shoes awkwardly from where he sits and pulls Dean’s socks out of them, pulling them over Dean’s feet. Dean beams sleepily up at him. Castiel returns his hand to Dean’s, winding their fingers back together. His other hand traces soft patterns onto Dean’s neck and jaw and collarbones. His heart sings as Dean’s eyes begin to droop.

The human falls asleep a little after that, his breathing matching the beating waves of the sea. Castiel swallows around a lump in his throat. He looks up at the stars, then back down at Dean. He can see all their constellations in Dean’s freckles. He matches his breathing with the human’s, practicing it until they are in perfect timing. He moves his hand back into Dean’s hair and strokes gently. He watches as Dean’s breath catches, then as he settles, happy with the touch, pressing himself even tighter against Castiel in his sleep. The fire burns and crackles in a way that warms even Castiel’s insides.

Is it the fire warming Castiel’s insides, or something else entirely?

He looks away from the cracked and glowing logs, back down at Dean. He doesn’t know how long it is that he runs his fingers tenderly through Dean’s hair, how long it is he spends watching the human, watching his eyelashes flutter as he snoozes, breathing as gently as possible so as not to disturb him.

The sound of the waves beat in his ears. Dean’s hair is thick and rough with the salt from the sea. Castiel can’t help but beam, can’t help but beam at everything it is that makes Dean who he is, wishes he could memorise the human and be able to learn every freckle, every blemish, every laugh-line, every eyelash. He hopes one day he will. He knows one day he will.

“I love you,” He breathes with the sound of the distantly crashing waves. The weight of all the oceans in the world echoes in his voice, deep and rich and soft as the sea. “I love you.” His hand continues to run tenderly through Dean’s hair. “I love you,” He says in time with each inhale and exhale of the human, each beat of the water against the sand. “I love you, Dean. I love you.”

 

…

 

_A boy with black hair sits cross-legged on a lawn. It’s big and bright and greener than anything Dean has seen before and he can’t make out the end of it in any direction. No trees, no benches, no sandpits, no nothing. It’s kinda boring, but Dean doesn’t find himself minding. He feels sleepy. He can see the sky and the field and nothing else. Not even trees. Just grass. And the boy with black hair sitting on it._

_The boy with black hair has black wings._

_Dean sits down next to him._

_“Hey,” He says, smiling. “What’s your name?” The boy doesn’t turn to look at him. Dean frowns and tugs awkwardly at his t-shirt, embarrassed. He looks down at the grass, pulling at it. His shoes are muddy. His mom’s gonna_ kill _him for getting so messy._

_The boy next to him—about his age, Dean thinks—lies back on the grass, resting his hands on his tummy. Dean does the same, lies back, folds his hands over himself, watching the black-haired boy with wide eyes._

_Something about him looks familiar._

_The side of Dean’s face feels warm, as if heated by the sun. His scalp tingles. The field he lies in glows with gold._

_Suddenly the boy turns on his side to look at Dean. Excited, Dean does the same. He looks into the boy’s bright blue eyes, counts the stripes on his navy and white t-shirt. Thirteen stripes. Dean glows with pride that he can count that high. His mommy says he’s very clever and that one day he’ll be able to count to a_ hundred.

_“What’s your favourite colour?” The boy asks, and Dean thinks he can hear the wind and sea in his voice, can see the crackle of a campfire in his eyes._

_“Uh,” Dean hesitates, chewing his lip. His mommy always tells him not to do this, because sometimes he worries it too hard and his lip bleeds, but she’s not here, and the boy in front of Dean makes him feel shy. He looks back up into the bright blue eyes. He decides out of all the colours in the world, he likes them best. “Blue,” He decides. He offers the other boy a small smile._

_“Blue is good,” The other boy nods. “I like green best.”_

_“Why green?”_

_The boy with wings shrugs and smiles. It is the first time he has in their conversation._

_“I just do.”_

_“My mommy likes green best, too.” Dean says. “Would you like to meet her?”_

_“I’d love to meet her. Where is she?”_

_Dean falters for a moment._

_He doesn’t know._

_“Where are_ we?” _He asks in response. The boy frowns and stares at Dean._

_“We’re in the field.”_

_Dean giggles._

_“Yeah, I know that, silly.”_

_“I’m not silly,_ you’re _silly,” The boy carries on frowning at Dean._

_“What’s your name?” Dean asks._

_“Clarence.”_

_Dean giggles._

_“Clarence is a weird name.”_

_“Well, what’s your name?” The boy asks, glaring._

_“Dean.”_

_“Your name is just as weird as mine,” He frowns. Then he softens. “Why do you like blue best?”_

_Dean chews his lip again._

_“Your eyes are blue,” He says, voice shy. He tries to make it sound braver. “So I’ve decided I like it best.”_

_The boy smiles again and presses a kiss to Dean’s nose._

_Dean’s never been kissed before, even on the nose—not by anyone other than his mommy—his eyes go wide and his tummy turns somersaults._

_Can boys kiss boys? Is that allowed? Can boys fall in love with boys?_

_Maybe the black-haired, black-winged boy lying next to him can read his mind, because he replies, “I love you,” And the wind and the sand and the sea are in his voice, and his voice has changed into something new, something grown-up, deep and rough and Dean gasps at it and his insides turn backflips again. “I love you,” Dean can hear the waves in the boy’s voice, and can see two figures on the beach, wrapped around each other. The sky above the field darkens, though it isn’t scary—not with Clarence lying beside him—it feels like it does when Dean’s mommy tucks him up at night and sings him little lullabies. Then the corners of the sky set on fire. Dean still isn’t scared. It looks pretty, and Clarence makes him feel safe. “I love you, Dean, I love you.”_

_Snow begins to drift down from the burning, darkened sky. It sticks in Clarence’s black hair and clings to his dark eyelashes. It makes his eyes look like the daytime sky, bright and blue, only with_ stars _peeping out of it and glittering. Snowflakes start coating both of them, tickling Dean’s nose._

_“I love you, too,” He says. He doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t worry why it is he loves a boy when Dean is a boy, too. Clarence loves him, Dean loves Clarence. The snow covers their bodies and time seems to stand still in the lazy drift of white covering the bright green of the field. The sky carries on burning. Dean thinks that maybe he’s flying._

_Two figures are on a beach._

_Two boys are in a field._

_Black wings. Black hair. Blue eyes._

_Best friend. Family. Boyfriend._

_Two figures on a beach. Two boys in a field. Snow falls. The sky burns._

_Dean is warm and cold. Dean is_ happy _._

 

“Dean,” His body is shaken. He frowns, curling into the warmth he rests his head on. “Dean, wake up.”

Dean grumbles and refuses. He wants to go back to the field.

“Dean, you’re _shivering.”_

Well, yeah, it _was just_ snowing, after all.

Wait, what?

Dean blinks awake.

He lies on a beach, in Castiel’s arms, head on Castiel’s chest.

He remembers falling asleep on the angel’s lap.

Confused, Dean blinks and lifts his head as the angel lifts him up. Dean looks deep into Castiel’s eyes.

“You okay?” The angel asks softly, pink lips curving into a smile as he wraps a blanket tight around Dean’s shoulders. Dean looks up at the sky around them—it’s not burning, but—wait, why the hell would it be burning? “You’re shivering. We fell asleep.”

It’s darker than Dean remembers it being when he was lying on Castiel’s lap. He glances at the fire, but there is no fire—at least, not any more. It’s burnt down to embers, smoking and glowing and occasionally flaring up, but otherwise nothing more than a heap of bright ash and charred wood.

“I…” His voice is rasping in his throat, deeper and more grown-up than he remembers it being. But—he’s sounded like this for years, hasn’t he? How old is he? Four and a half. Four and a half, and he can count to _thirty,_ and his favourite colour is blue, and he wants to be a fireman when he grows up _._ _No,_ idiot, he’s _nineteen._ He’s in _college,_ and if things go to plan, he’s gonna be an _architect._ “I had a dream—”

Castiel’s body tenses with worry. Dean doesn’t like it.

“Oh,” The angel’s voice frowns, “a nightmare?” He asks, tone concerned. “What was it about?”

Dean looks back over to the angel. He realised Castiel’s hands squeeze at his shoulders. His eyes meet Cas’s bright-blues.

Bright blue. Like the daytime sky with stars shining out of it.

_Oh._

“You,” Dean replies simply. “I think—no, it was definitely you.” Castiel looks hurt. He moves back, swallowing, removing himself from Dean’s body. Why is he?— _Oh._

“It wasn’t a bad one,” Dean says quickly. “Not a nightmare,” He reassures.

“It… wasn’t?” Castiel asks, still uncertain.

Dean could beam.

Maybe he’s only just starting to realise how much the angel cares about him—but the evidence of Cas’s feelings are scrawled all across his face, right now, and Dean can hardly deny it when Castiel looks so concerned for him.

“It was—it was snowing.” Dean says slowly. “Snowing, yeah,” He nods. “That’s why I was shivering.”

“I think you were shivering because you were lying half-naked on a beach in the middle of the night, and the fire just went out.”

Dean’s lips twitch up.

“And you were—and I was—we were children.”

“Oh,” Cas says softly. He swallows. “It was nice?”

“It was…” Dean huffs out a laugh, looking away. “I was so happy—I’ve never been so hap—” He cuts himself off. “You kissed my nose,” He giggles. Castiel smiles, eyes filling with something new.

“I see.”

“And then it started snowing—and—and I got really confused, ‘cause I didn’t know why it was I was a boy and you were a boy and I was crushing on you, and—” Dean giggles, self-conscious, “and then you said you—” He cuts himself off.

“Then I said I…?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at the human.

Dean flushes.

“I—ah, shit,” He feigns a grimace, “I can’t remember. I think maybe I woke up at that point. It’s all gone, anyway. Y’know how dreams are. But… It was a good one. A good dream.”

Maybe Dean’s favourite dream. Maybe Dean’s favourite dream _ever._

Castiel picks up their shoes and the rest of their clothing.

“That’s good,” He chuckles softly. “Let’s get inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you haven't already, check out my new story, [To Build a Home](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8411608/chapters/19274926)
> 
> It's another AU (ofc), slow burn, friends to lovers, childhood friends fic. Here's some of the summary: 'On the day of Jimmy Novak's funeral, Dean sees Cas for the first time in nine years. He adored Castiel the moment he met him, at only four years old. But after fourteen years of friendship destroyed by one moment of heartbreak, and after nine years of silence, Dean is convinced Cas will want nothing to do with him. And it's killing him.'
> 
> Give it a read! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. In case you can't tell, I'm addicted to Dean and Cas as kids


	25. You or Your Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter's kinda short by comparison to others, and it only covers Cas's birthday.  
> I thought I'd change things up a little in this one, so I hope you guys enjoy - thanks to Viplaja for helping to rid me of my writer's block, as per usual :)
> 
> The chapters after this are gonna end up covering bigger stretches of time, and there'll probably be bigger time gaps between them - so the pace of the story is going to quicken a fair bit. I don't want to overkill it; it'll end with Dean graduating (the end of the 'college years', obviously) but that probably won't be the end of the 'verse, I may do a few timestamps etc., just because I really love Dean and Cas's relationship in this world.
> 
> So, like, hopefully things will be pretty wound up by chapter 30. Maybe 35. I'm not even sure.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter, and sorry for the wait!

Chapter 25

 

Cas is sleeping, face squished into pristine white pillows. Dean can just make out the corner of one eye, closed, and of the angel’s long dark eyelashes, crimped by hours of heavy sleep. He smiles to himself and lets out a soft breath, sunlight unfurling throughout his body at the sight of Cas. Dean sits up in bed to push his hand lightly through the angel’s hair. It doesn't wake him up, and so Dean moves into straddling the angel, bending down, bare chest resting on Cas’s bare back, hands either side of Castiel’s arms, burying his face into the angel’s neck and breathing deep. This smell, this is the smell he wants to be buried in. He sits back, trailing his hands down Cas’s shoulders and then into his wings, ruffled, lips playing upwards.

The feeling of Dean’s hands in his wings has Cas stirring where he lies, pressing his face firmer into his pillows and grumbling, even if he shifts his wing to allow Dean easier access. Dean snorts from on top of him. Cas is _always_ grumpy in the mornings, so that he should be grumpy today really ought to be of no surprise, even if today, of all days, is Cas’s _birthday._

“Hey, asshole,” Dean grins. “Wake up.”

“Fuck you.” Cas groans, reaching across the bed for one of Dean’s pillows and pulling it over his head. “Let me sleep.”

Dean chuckles, grazing his hands through the angel’s feathers. He glances at the alarm clock beside the bed.

“It’s past eleven, Cas. You _can’t_ still be tired.”

“I’m hungover,” Castiel grumbles from underneath the pillow. “So leave me alone.”

Dean laughs again, bending down to kiss the space inbetween Cas’s wings—the angel seems to enjoy this, body arching out under the touch, another grumble—though this one is grudgingly satisfied—escaping his lips.

“We purposefully drank less than we did two nights ago,” Dean points out. “You hardly had _anything.”_

“Fuck you,” Castiel repeats the earlier sentiment.

“You already did,” Dean grins, finally sliding off Cas and lying down next to him, moving the angel’s wings to lie under it. “Last night. Don’t you remember? You seemed to enjoy it, but maybe not _that_ much, ‘cause it clearly hasn’t left an impression—”

Laughter bubbles out from underneath the pillow on top of Castiel’s head, and in the next second he has rolled onto his back and pulled Dean on top of him, kissing his lips.

“Wish you weren’t so funny…” He grumbles, carding his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You make it so difficult for me to be grumpy, you realise that?”

Dean pulls an apologetic face.

“I’m so sorry I do that,” He shakes his head, feigning remorse. Castiel tips his head back against the pillow and rolls his eyes.

“Ezekiel was right. You _are_ getting more sarcastic.”

“And you’re getting more and more clueless,” Dean returns as Castiel slides Dean off him and closes his eyes. “Wake _up_ , sleepyhead.”

Dean ruffles at Cas’s hair until the angel groans loudly and buries himself in pillows.

“Clueless?” Castiel frowns into the sheets.

“Yeah, clueless, dumbass. You know what day it is?”

“Uh—Monday?”

“Your _birthday.”_

“My…” Castiel frowns and lifts his head and frowns at Dean. His eyebrows are all mussed up, his face is lined with indentations from the pillow, stubble gracing his cheeks and jaw, his hair is over the fucking place, really—stuck up at awkward angles, which, in retrospect, Dean is probably at least half responsible for, considering last night’s activities. It’s wholesome and gorgeous and hilarious to look at Cas in this state, apparently hungover, definitely exhausted, and utterly bewildered.

“Birthday,” Dean finishes for the angel. “Don’t tell me you’re _that_ hungover.”

“Birthday?” Castiel repeats. “Mine?”

“You heard me right the first time, Cas,” Dean grins wistfully, shaking his head. “Birthday. You gonna celebrate, or spend all day in bed?”

“You gonna spend all day asking stupid questions?”

“You’re so grumpy in the morning, did you know that?”

Castiel groans and curls himself a little more into the sheets.

“Come back in five… ten minutes.”

“We both know that for you to be in any kind of good mood, you’d have to be waking up _at least_ in the PM. Now come on, Rachel and Ezekiel are gonna come barging in any minute and I want to give you my present before that.”

“Present?” Castiel repeats, frowning.

“Yeah, present, dumbass. It’s your _birthday,_ and I’m your _boyfriend._ Why are you surprised?”

Castiel grumbles, wrapping his body still more in the sheets and reaching for Dean’s hand.

“Come here,” He tugs at it. “Wrap your body around mine. Sleep a little more.”

“Asshole,” Dean chuckles, kissing the side of Cas’s face. “You know you’re an asshole, right?”

“Have you only just worked that out?”

Dean barks out a laugh and pushes Cas off the bed. He lands on the floor with a thump and in a mess of sheets.

“Dean!”

“Hey, you’re awake!” Dean grins. “Lemme give you your present, now!”

“Being friends with Ezekiel has turned you into a kid,” Cas groans from the floor, picking himself reluctantly up and sitting on the mattress. “I hate you.”

“First of all, you’ve only _ever_ known me when I was friends with Ezekiel. And second of all, no you don’t.”

“Maybe not,” Castiel hums, yawning and blinking bleary-eyed as Dean rummages through his stuff, before finding the present and card for today and dropping them in Cas’s lap.

“Happy birthday, Cas,” Dean beams, kissing the angel on the tip of his nose. Castiel laughs and drags Dean down to kiss him properly, claimingly, before smiling into Dean’s mouth.

“Have you made me a cake, or—?”

“For breakfast? Fuck no.” Dean wrinkles his nose and taps the present on Cas’s lap. “Open it.”

The angel sighs and opens the card first. Dean grins, rolling his eyes and lying back on the bed, thinking of just _how typical_ it is of Cas to make a point of opening cards first. The angel beams as his eyes graze over the page. Then he glances back over to Dean and bends down to kiss him again.

“Thank you,”

“You haven’t even opened the _present_ yet, dumbass—”

Castiel moves to sit next to Dean’s head, back resting against the bed’s headboard, and begins tearing at the wrapping paper. Dean chews at his lip nervously.

A leather-bound photo album falls into Cas’s lap. Pink lips pressed together, Dean watches as the angel, frown weaving across his features, unties its covering and opens the book.

Now a smile twitches at his lips, soft and bittersweet.

“Don’t go far off,”  He reads the message embossed on the cover page. His eyes seem glassy, then he lifts them up to Dean. “Pablo Neruda?” He asks. Dean wants to shrink down into the covers in embarrassment at how sentimental this present seems, and finally thinks he understands why Castiel was so all-over-the-place with feelings of vulnerability after Dean’s birthday, considering his present to the human.

“Yeah,” He confirms. “From one of the poems in that collection you gave me, for my birthday.”

Castiel’s mouth splits into a grin.

He looks back down at the album, flipping to the first page.

His smile widens.

“From halloween—” He laughs at the first photograph, a picture of Dean, Ezekiel, Gabriel and Castiel all standing next to each other on halloween; Dean a cowboy—Clint Eastwood, specifically— and Ezekiel, Gabriel and Castiel all zombie-pirates, as per Ezekiel’s request. “I look ridiculous,” The angel laughs down at the page, bright eyes creasing up at their corners, cheeks flaming a soft pink.

“So do all of us,” Dean points out, shuffling close to Cas. The angel looks up at him, eyes glittering with affection.

“No, not you,” He shakes his head. “You look adorable. I couldn’t stop thinking about how hot you were, that night—”

“Cas,” Dean flushes, pushing his boyfriend softly. Cas only responds by curling his wing around Dean’s body, smile fading into something nostalgic and beautiful as he examines the next photos. Thankfully he doesn’t insist on complimenting Dean in ways that make his body glow red, this time.

The following three photographs are more from halloween, selfies Ezekiel took of any combination of the four of them—Gabriel, Ezekiel, Castiel and Dean; the two photos after this were taken by Ezekiel on a disposable camera inside his and Castiel’s dorm.

“This is so cute,” Castiel positively beams, tapping one of them—Dean is sat awkwardly on a beanbag on the floor, Castiel on his bed, scowling at the camera.

“Yeah, I thought it pretty much sums up the first few months of our relationship,” Dean jokes, and Cas snorts and bumps his shoulder against Dean’s.

“And this one,” Castiel taps the other photo. “When was it taken?”

“Ezekiel took it—you know before he tried to set me up with Gadreel?”

Castiel makes a jealous noise of confirmation that Dean wants to bury himself in.

“Well,” Dean continues, grinning through his blush, “I think this was the photo that prompted him to do it. He got it developed and saw the way you were looking at me, and thought maybe you _did_ like me—”

The picture captures Dean sat on the floor, again, beer in hand, speaking to Ezekiel, behind the camera—in the photograph, Castiel gazes down at Dean with something like what Dean now recognises as longing in the angel’s eyes—and even though it’s only a moment caught on film, the expression on Cas’s face makes Dean swallow thickly.

“…He was right…” Castiel murmurs softly. Dean glances up to regard the angel, who takes a moment to laugh softly, almost wistful in manner. “Of course he was right,” He chuckles, shaking his head. “He gave these to you?” Cas asks, gesturing to the pictures and looking up at Dean again.

“Yeah…” Dean answers, voice hoarse, though he isn’t sure why. “I told him what my plan was for your birthday present, and he got together as many pictures as he could find with the two of us… ‘cause… y’know, I got to thinking about how, this year, you’re gonna be graduating—and then…”

Dean trails off, unsure of where this sentence was going to go, but sure he doesn’t want to let it continue to hear where it is its final destination lies.

Castiel looks up at him with glassy eyes.

“Right,” He nods, swallowing. “So that explains the opening, then. _Don’t Go Far Off?”_ He repeats, raising his eyebrows uncertainly in Dean’s direction.

“Pretty much,” Dean nods by way of confirmation, looking down with prickling skin.

“And what if I promised that I wouldn’t?”

“What?” Dean asks, frowning.

“If I promise I won’t go far, what would you say? After I graduate, I mean. If I said I’d stay close, what would you say?”

Dean swallows thickly.

“I think I’d say that I’d like that, Cas.”

The angel’s mouth seems tempted to be drawn up into a warm, sad smile. Dean watches as Castiel blinks hard several times.

“Then I promise.”

“Cas,” Dean laughs, “we’ve got a year. You sure you’re not getting a little ahead of yourself?”

Cas only shrugs.

“I don’t care if I am.”

“Right,” Dean laughs hoarsely.

“You think it’s unrealistic to hope that we’ll still be dating in a year?”

“No,” Dean shakes his head, frowning thoughtfully. “I just… We’ll get there when we get there, y’know? And I _hope_ we will, and obviously, I got you this,” Dean taps the album, “thinking that if we were… gonna have to go long distance, this’d be, I dunno, something nice for you to have? But—”

“But until now, the risk of us having to try to sustain a long-distance relationship had been an unspoken one?”

“No, not like that,” Dean struggles for his words. “A year is a long way down the line, though—”

“Closer than you think—”

“But I got this, thinking, if you still wanted to try it, when you leave college and move… wherever it is you want to live… I’d like to give it a go. I wouldn’t want it to end just ‘cause you’re going out into the real world, and I’m still a student. And maybe having memories would make that easier.”

Cas’s smile is soft and bittersweet again.

He leans close to Dean and kisses him like Dean’s lips are the only thing he knows.

 

…

 

Castiel sits cross-legged on the bed, rereading the card Dean wrote for him. The action sends honey coiling through his system, trickling along his limbs and sweetening them like sunlight. The human is showering, Castiel can hear the echoing-running of water, constant, in the room next door.

Even thinking about Dean is making him smile, something familiar and peaceful coming to rest in his heart.

He glances down at the message Dean wrote to him on the card, again.

_Cas,_

_I was thinking for ages about what I could get for you that might live up to the thoughtfulness of your presents to me, on my birthday. I was thinking about a lot of things when I came up with this._

_Thanks for being an awesome boyfriend. And an awesome person. You make me so damn happy, sometimes I think I’m going crazy with it—and I don’t think I say it enough, probably because I’m afraid of sounding like a total goof when I do. But today’s your birthday, and if I can’t say it today of all days, then I’m the biggest wimp that ever walked the earth. So here it is: you make me happier than I ever thought I could deserve, let alone come to feel._

_Thanks for everything._

_And happy birthday. You’re the dorkiest, and the best._

_Dean._

Castiel’s heart surges with love for the human.

The sound of the water stops. Castiel run his fingertips along the dark leather of the photo album, unable to stop turning his mind over the conversation he and Dean had had that morning.

On the one hand, the prospect of acting as though their relationship will most likely end when Castiel graduates has a lump rising in the angel’s throat and a bitter taste filling his mouth; he doesn’t want it to happen, doesn’t want to be forced to leave the human because of him graduating; doesn’t think he wants to have to leave the human _ever,_ let alone within the year… but on the other hand, acknowledging this means—what exactly? That he and Dean might be… _it_ , for him? Endgame?

And then, what about after college? What of years down the line? What about Castiel sitting in an apartment he shares with Dean, on the couch, under a blanket, watching movies as rain patters on the windows outside? What about asking Dean to move in with him? What about celebrating birthday after birthday with the human until Castiel grows old?

He isn’t sure if this prospect terrifies him or thrills him.

Dean steps into the room, drying his hair clumsily with a towel so that, a darker brown than usual on account of the water, it sticks up at awkward and endearing spikes, Dean blinking through wet eyelashes.

“Hey, buddy,” He greets, stepping into a pair of sweatpants. “You okay over there?”

Castiel nods in confirmation, fingers grazing against the smooth leather of Dean’s present to him, once again.

“I don’t think I deserve you,” He confesses, the sound of his voice grating against his throat as these words fall from his lips.

Dean snorts, clambering onto the bed and hooking his chin over Castiel’s shoulder.

“That’s funny,” He feigns thoughtfulness, “I was gonna say just the same thing about _you.”_

Castiel’s lips twitch upwards reluctantly and he reaches back to trace his fingertips along the side of Dean’s face.

“But what’s brought this on?” Dean asks, nosing at the angel’s skin. Despite everything, darts of starlight dance at the angel’s flesh by the touch.

“Thinking about us,” Castiel confesses.

“Maybe you drank a little too much wine, tonight—” Dean jokes, but Castiel takes Dean’s hand and squeezes it.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Dean shrugs, the sound of his voice making Castiel chuckle.

“I’m amazed you didn’t fall in the shower.”

“As am I, Cassie, as am I.”

“Don’t call me that,” Castiel wrinkles his nose. Dean barks out a laugh, thumb grazing over the angel’s knuckles.

“So what are you thinking about us for?”

“I really want this to last…” Castiel confesses. The words feel heavy and loaded and far too severe for a response Dean’s playful tone.

But the human noses at the side of Castiel’s face before coming to sit opposite the angel on the bed.

“Yeah, same.”

“But I mean, _last_ last.”

“Yeah, same,” Dean repeats.

“And you think it could? What we have, I mean. Us?”

“I don’t see any reason why we couldn’t,” Dean shrugs. Something sparks behind his eyes, affectionate, and he smiles again. “Y’know, if the two of us got paid for how much we over thought things, we’d be fucking billionaires.”

“We could buy a mansion,” Castiel’s lips are played upwards as he regards Dean.

“Or a beach house like this,” Dean gestures around them.

“Maybe that’s how Ezekiel’s parents could afford it,” Castiel muses. “By getting paid for overthinking.”

Dean laughs again and leans in close to kiss at the angel’s lips.

“So, aside from worrying about everything, as is typical Castiel style, by the way—you’ve had a good birthday?” Dean asks.

“Yeah…” The answer hardly needs to be thought out. After Dean’s present, Rachel and Ezekiel had given Castiel their gifts to him, and then the four of them had made a very late breakfast all together, Ezekiel burning the toast and Rachel nearly tripping over the pots and pans Castiel’s roommate had left discarded on the floor, spilling the freshly-squeezed orange juice, which naturally resulted in fits of laughter. They had messed around on the beach and in the sea for hours, until Ezekiel’s parents had told them that they were going out for dinner in celebration, to which Ezekiel naturally protested heavily, and which, also naturally, was an incredibly awkward ordeal wherein Dean tried to stifle his laughter at each awkward lull in conversation, and at the fact that he was tipsy off Cas’s red wine.

Then they’d returned to the house, Ezekiel bringing out another two bottles of wine and clapping his hands on Castiel’s shoulders, and they’d all settled down together to watch Back to the Future and get a little bit more wasted. When it was over, it was a dark blue-black outside, and Dean, Ezekiel and Rachel lit up the candles on a birthday cake they’d made together and brought it out to Castiel, who couldn’t stop blushing and beaming. They’d chatted and laughed until Rachel couldn’t stop yawning and Castiel announced that it was time _all_ of them started getting ready for bed.

“...The best birthday,” Castiel decides, considering all of this with a suppressed beam. “Ever. Thank you.”

“Hey, it’s no problem,” Dean grins, kissing the top of Castiel’s head. “And what now? Birthday sex?”

Castiel finds that laughter is tumbling from his lips before he can think to stop it.

“Or a massage?” Dean winks suggestively. The angel chuckles again.

“What are you, forty?”

“Well, what would you _like_ me to do?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel smiles, slipping off his t-shirt, “stay here and talk to me while I brush the saltwater out of my wings?”

“I could brush them for you?” Dean suggests.

Castiel looks up at the human. Swallows.

He knows that it’s one thing to let Dean touch his wings, to let the human bury his hands in Castiel’s feathers when the angel is fucking him deep into the bedsheets, knows it’s one thing to wrap the limbs around Dean’s body at night, shielding and warming and protecting him, enveloping him all but completely, but… _grooming_ them? It’s an intimacy so far unbreached in their relationship, one that intrinsically leaves Castiel feeling very much open and vulnerable, as though he’s sharing a profound and secret part of himself with the human—and he can’t think as to why it is that this thought scares him so.

“Hey, earth to Cas?” Dean waves his hand in front of Castiel’s face, his own expression abashed and, for whatever reason, slightly put-out. “It was just a suggestion. I’m sorry if it was weird.”

Without thinking, Castiel raises his wing and fans it out, revealing everything, the downy feathers of his underwing, the long dark feathers of his primaries, his alulas, scapulars, all of it.

“The brush is over there. So is the comb.” He points over to the set of drawers beside his side of the bed, to its surface, where the soft brush he uses on his more delicate feathers, and wooden comb for the long feathers on the outside of his wings lie. Dean’s expression has changed, he seems to sense the weight of this moment, this gesture, though Castiel has no idea how he _could._ Perhaps Dean is simply _that good_ at reading the angel.

“Right,” Dean turns, picking up both items, before glancing back at Castiel. “You might have to talk me through this,” He confesses, laughing a little breathlessly, and Castiel does the same, feeling light with nervous anticipation.

“That’s okay,” Castiel feigns something as close to indifference as he thinks he can in this moment, but his voice wavers and he can feel his pulse fluttering below his jaw.

“So I know this one’s for these feathers,” Dean holds the comb, dropping the brush on the bed and moving behind Castiel, kneeling on the bed behind the angel. He runs the wide teeth of the comb through the feathers at the back of Castiel’s left wing; the angel’s breath catching in his throat almost immediately. “Is this… Is this okay?” Dean asks, noting Castiel’s reaction—which, the angel supposes, is ambiguous enough be readable as either good, or as bad. Castiel is utterly winded as he responds,

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

Dean is quiet for a moment before repeating the action. Castiel bites down on the urge to arch his back at the touch, pinpricks of arousal dancing straight to his groin as Dean runs the wide-toothed comb through his feathers for a third time. At the fourth touch, he reaches back and takes a hold of Dean’s free hand, squeezing at the fingers.

“Am I doing this right?” Dean asks, tentative. “Am I hurting you?”

Castiel laughs again, still breathless.

“No,” He shakes his head. “You’re doing this—perfectly, Dean. Perfectly.”

“Oh—” Dean seems surprised by his aptitude at this task, but honestly, Castiel is more surprised by his own response to it; he had _no idea_ that someone else’s hands running themselves through his wings could feel so good, had never known himself to be so responsive to touch in this respect. Dean combing through the feathers on the other wing has Castiel gasping in surprise.

“Sorry—” The human stammers, withdrawing quickly, but Castiel shakes his head, near frantic.

“It’s not—” He’s mortified by the need burning at his voice. “You didn’t—you didn’t hurt me—it felt good—”

“Oh,” Dean says again, just as winded as Castiel feels. He repeats the action; soft, delicate, so tender that Castiel _has_ to arch his back, this time, letting out a sigh into the air between his parted lips that has Dean pressing himself flush against Castiel’s back and murmuring in the angel’s ear,

“See, normally, it’s _me_ making those noises and _you_ causing them. It’s nice to see the tables turned, for once.”

His breath is hot and soft on Castiel’s ear, and the angel shivers involuntarily.

“You agree?” The smile is evident in Dean’s voice. Castiel nods, even if it’s already pretty obvious how much he’s enjoying this, and how surprised he is by this fact. “If I’d known you’d react to it like this,” Dean speaks slowly, thoughtfully, pushing the comb through Castiel’s long, strong feathers again so that it glides along the skin underneath them; Castiel imagines that the human’s jade eyes are trained on the comb and its actions and that he speaks so thoughtfully now because he is near lost in concentration, “I would’ve suggested me grooming you a long time ago…”

Castiel tips his head back so that it rests on Dean’s shoulder, imagines Dean smirking down at him, and shivers again.

His eyes are closed, but he feels Dean’s lips brush against the side of his face. The broad comb is run through his feathers once again. He moves his wing so that Dean will not have to leave from where he is pressed, flush, up against Castiel’s back, to reach the feathers at his wing’s tip, and feels a hot rush of air against his face as Dean chuckles.

“Nice to see you being the needy one,” He confesses with amusement lacing the arousal in his tone. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

Dean finishes grooming the back of Castiel’s left wing, and moves to his right. Mortified, Castiel realises that he is already half-hard, and that when Dean moves on to grooming his underwings, he’ll most likely be overcome with want, whimpering and tossing his body in the way that… well, in the way that he causes _Dean_ to, usually.

Dean begins kissing at the angel’s neck as he finishes on the last of the feathers on the back of his right wing. Castiel is biting down on every one of his moans, but because of this, they’re coming out more like half-formed whines, which is possibly _more_ embarrassing, and—

_Oh._

Dean’s hand has come to reach around Castiel’s torso and now cups at his groin, Castiel tossing his head back once again, moaning loudly into the air in front of him.

“You like that?” Dean whispers, filthy hot into his ear. Castiel groans again and presses himself up into the touch, but Dean has already removed himself, picking up the soft brush and moving round so that he can focus on Castiel’s soft, vulnerable underwings.

“Lie back,” Dean instructs, straddling Castiel’s body and pushing at the angel’s shoulder lightly. Castiel does so, trying to keep his breathing even, seeing the same possession and want in Dean’s eyes that he feels simmering in himself when watching Dean follow _his_ instructions, the human leaving himself open and vulnerable to Castiel’s touch. “Wings spread,” Dean taps at Castiel’s left wing, and he unfolds it, spreading it widely for the human and looking up at him through his eyelashes. “You have beautiful eyes, y’know,” Dean beams, bending over Castiel to nose at the angel’s nose.

“And you’re a walking cliche, y’know,” Castiel responds, to which Dean only snorts and bumps his nose against Castiel’s.

“Rich talk, coming from the guy who got a hard-on just by having his hair brushed—”

“Rich talk, coming from the guy who got off just by me giving him lovebites—”

“I had a plug in my ass, too, you know,” Dean protests, frowning indignantly a moment at Castiel. “And stop smirking,” He nudges the angel and thumbs at the soft brush for a few seconds, before running it through Castiel’s feathers.

Honestly, the angel is more than a little embarrassed by the noise he makes in response. His entire body arcs upwards towards Dean, wings spreading wider in some kind of involuntary, desperate sort of plea, pleasure shooting its way through his body as Dean repeats the action, over and over, until his briefs are damp with precome and he can hardly think.

Dean bends down to kiss Castiel, tongue probing into his mouth, rutting his hips against the angel’s, hand slipping behind Castiel’s back to press him close.

“How would you feel about _me_ being the one to fuck _you,_ tonight?” Dean asks, voice breathy against Castiel’s mouth. The angel can only swallow for a moment, feeling as though the world is, altogether, far too short of oxygen, and as though this is entirely Dean’s fault.

He hasn’t bottomed in _years._ Castiel _likes_ being the one in control, likes watching as others are taken apart, the flutter of eyelashes, the hitch of breath, the butterfly movement of pulse in neck, closed eyes, chest rising and falling, Castiel observing all of it, not unaffected, but certainly not this _vulnerable._

“Sure—” He answers before his mind can catch up to his lips. “Why not?”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards. He grabs the lube from the bedside table.

“—Wait—” Castiel sits up and takes a hold of Dean’s wrist, Dean frowning and stilling with confusion for a moment. Castiel draws the human’s fingers to his back to where skin turns to feather, to where feather-oils have been seeping steadily since Dean fist began grooming Castiel. “Use this,” He murmurs, enjoying the way Dean’s breath hitches, pupils dilating, and feeling—at least for a moment—empowered again, seeing the effect he has upon the human.

Dean’s movements become slow and uncertain as he drags his fingers along Castiel’s oil glands, slicking them up, before ghosting them over Castiel’s entrance.

“So you haven’t topped in a while, huh?” Castiel asks, at least relieved that this seems to be as unfamiliar to Dean as it is to him.

“With a guy?” Dean flicks his eyes up to meet Castiel’s. “Literally never.”

“Oh,” is all the angel can say in response. “It’s been a while since I bottomed, too, so—”

“I guess this is gonna be kinda new for both of us?” Dean cocks a lopsided grin, raising an eyebrow, and it’s enough to relax Castiel.

“Guess so,” He nods. Dean grazes his fingers along more of Castiel’s oil-slick skin before breaching the angel’s body. A sound, low and guttural, escapes Castiel’s chest. He wriggles down on the digit inside of him, Dean letting out a hoarse little laugh.

“Getting used to it, again?”

“Something like that,” Castiel closes his eyes, breathless, chest hitching, memorizing the feeling. Dean begins to brush his feather again with his free hand, the touch soft and perfect, before he slicks his fingers a little more and eases another digit into the angel’s body.

“Didn’t know angels could do this…” He murmurs, eyes trained on where his fingers press into Castiel’s body.

“The oil’s for our feathers,” Castiel squirms and curls his toes as a third finger is pressed inside of him, muscles clenching a moment before relaxing and allowing Dean to prep him further. “Keeps them soft. For grooming,” He explains. “It just has…” A moan cuts him off as his eyes threaten to flutter closed at Dean’s touches, one gorgeously tender and adoring on his wing, the other pressing at his hole, sliding in and out with painful deliberacy. “ _Other_ benefits.”

Dean lets out another laugh. He has a go at stretching out his fingers inside the angel.

“Have you ever thought about using it on _me?”_

As he says this, entirely unintentionally, Castiel is convinced, Dean grazes his fingertips against that raised spot inside of him that makes his back arch even more and a flurry of profanities slip from his lips.

“Fuck—” He gasps, then he raises his eyebrows at Dean, who has stilled himself. “You’d like that?”

“I—” Dean glances down, embarrassed. “It seems kind of hot, yeah. Like, _your_ oil, marking _me,_ you using it to fuck me—I don’t know if that makes sense, I just like that thought _—_ ”

Castiel sits up again to kiss Dean’s lips.

“Then we’ll do it.”

Dean’s cheeks flame. He smiles shyly. Then he continues working his fingers in and out of Castiel’s body.

Fourth finger in, other hand still brushing tenderly at the feathers of Castiel’s underwing, and the angel has given up on thinking, choosing only to _feel_ instead. Feel Dean’s hand running along his downy feathers, feel Dean’s fingers pressing in and out of him, feel the sheen of perspiration on his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes, the hitch in his breath, the pinpricks of arousal and heat coiling in his abdomen.

Dean runs his hands along the base of Castiel’s feathers one more time, coating himself in oil, before pressing into the angel’s body.

Both of them stammer out a gasp.

Fingers still in Castiel’s feathers, Dean seems to remind himself to move. Their noses are a few scant inches away from one another, Dean’s breath mingles with Castiel’s, Castiel’s eyes meet Dean’s jade gaze, open and soft and deep with sincerity, with awe. Castiel thinks he feels the same way.

Teeth and tongue meet, lips and jaw, and Dean is grinding into Castiel like he isn’t quite sure what he’s doing, but he knows he likes it—which, Castiel reminds himself, is probably exactly how Dean feels—this theory is confirmed at the near sinful moan that escapes Dean’s lips. Castiel flips them over, spreading his wings wider—whether this is an attempt to regain dominance, displaying a possessiveness and assertiveness that until now in the proceedings had been forgotten, or whether it is simply an earnest, wanton _plea_ for Dean to touch more of his wings, Castiel cannot tell. But he rides the human, arching his back, chest flushed, utterly unabashed, Dean’s fingers in his feathers and trailing, lost, down his torso, gripping at his hips,  running smooth and soft and natural as water down his thighs and then back into the angel’s wings.

“Fuck,” Dean moans, and Castiel can only agree breathlessly, head tipping back, too awed by the beautiful, glowing form of Dean beneath him, his brown eyelashes fluttering, the glimmers of jade behind them, the freckles brought out by days in the sun, the ruffled hair. Castiel moans again, unable to stop himself, somehow bringing himself pleasure just by thinking about the human—he reaches down, trailing his hands down Dean’s chest, fingertips grazing against the sensitive skin of the human’s furled nipples, Dean moaning and arching out beneath him, hips rising to drive into Castiel’s body, hitting him hard in a spot that has the angel making broken little noises of pleasure, and—fuck.

Castiel is coming, hand wrapped around his dick, release spattering across Dean’s hitching chest, riding Dean harder than ever, clenching all around him, until—Dean’s fingertips are almost certainly leaving bruises in Castiel’s sides, but he can hardly bring himself to care; not at the sight of Dean, gaze fluttering, breath stuttering, moaning out his release into Castiel’s body, head tossed back on the pillows in simple, earnest, wanton pleasure as he comes, too, the noise emitted from his lips almost heaven-sent.

He carries on riding Dean until they have both come down, Castiel feeling giddy, hoping the walls of the house are as thick as they are pristine, bending down, head reeling with ecstasy, to place a kiss on the human’s already kiss-darkened lips. He pulls off of Dean and collapses next to him on the cool sheets of the bed, sheen of sweat making his skin glow, facing turned to the ceiling, panting heavily.

And then, without explanation, both of them start laughing. Real, tummy-warming laughter that has Dean pulling his legs up and Castiel’s nose wrinkling, and then they’re kissing again, beaming into the kiss like it’s all they know.

They pull apart panting. Castiel settles on his side, facing Dean, memorising his freckles and where they form and each tone and shade of them, gold, light brown, tan, some darker brown, some no more than pale flecks on the human’s gorgeous body.

“So that was new,” Dean pants, emerald eyes creasing at their corners.

“It was,” Castiel hums in agreement.

“But good?”

“Very good,” Castiel beams. “Always good with you.”

“I like the idea of you using your wing oil on me,” Dean confesses. Castiel huffs out a happy breath.

“I do too.”

“So we could try that out?”

“We could,” Castiel laughs. He leans close to graze his nose against Dean’s. “I’d like that.” Dean smiles and his cheeks flame at Castiel’s affection. “You’re beautiful,” The angel beams.

“And you call _me_ cliche.”

“I do,” Castiel chuckles. The moment seems to have grown as still and ethereal as starlight between them. “But I mean it. About you being beautiful. You are, in every way I can think of.”

Dean beams and shakes his head, looking away.

“Good birthday?” He asks, looking back, instead, Castiel guesses, of sharing the vulnerable intimacy of this moment for any longer. That’s okay. Castiel understands.

He takes the human’s hands.

“The very best,” He nods. “Ever. Thank you. For everything.”

Dean’s eyes change into something new, like the moon shining through a cloudy sky.

“That’s… My pleasure, Cas. It’s no problem.”

“I like it when you call me Cas.”

A chuckle cracks out of Dean’s throat.

“I’m glad.”

He could spend forever with Dean. Not just another year. He could spend _years_ in this moment alone, living it out, replaying it, learning Dean, learning all of him, in more intimate and profound detail than he has even so far; breathing the human, breathing him out,  memorising him, his laugh-lines, his freckles like starlight, his pink lips, the sound of his voice, the sound of his voice when he’s happy, when he’s overjoyed, when he’s at peace, when he’s restful, when he’s sleepy, when he’s awake. He wants all of it. He wants all of it, with Dean.

He says as much.

It’s another step closer to telling the human how much he loves him.

All the same, and all his feelings considered, it hardly seems close enough. It’s difficult to do Dean justice. Castiel is trying his best. Wants to provide Dean with just as much happiness as Dean provides Castiel.

Maybe one day he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yes, if you're wondering, that album is one of the photo albums Cas looks through in Amnesia. (sorry if that broke a few hearts). Also, Dean and Cas totally made it a tradition to fill these albums with as many memories as possible, mostly of them just goofing around. They're such dorks. Fuck, I love them.
> 
> Also I totally forgot to say but I got interviews at two of my favourite universities! (so basically a "you're through to the next round" deal, which isn't by any means an offer, but feels like a massive "hey, we don't think you SUCK", which is a blessing. I'm very happy.)
> 
> Thanks for reading, I'd love to hear any feedback you have


	26. Hellhound On My Trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this was so delayed!! Here it is now! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> I need to give HUGE content/trigger warnings for this chapter for abuse, discussion of abuse, nightmares/flashbacks, and referenced rape. It's towards the second half of the chapter and onwards if you want to avoid it.Then lots of hurt/comfort and healing.
> 
> This gets pretty sad so I'm sorry in advance :( Next chapter is super happy/about Dean's healing/Cas being an amazing boyfriend though, so you have that to look forward to. Also, I can promise that next chapter they FINALLY say "I love you" to each other! About time.

  
  


Dean tosses a bag onto his bed and drops a box of his stuff onto the floor. Benny has already given him the bear-hug to end all bear-hugs, and Cas will be arriving later today. Zeke has texted Dean to tell him to come over, that he’s already unpacked and is bored to death, and this isn’t how he’d planned on spending the beginning of his final year in college.

He pulls his phone out his pocket and texts Cas.

 

  * __ETA?__



 

Cas’s reply is near instantaneous.

 

  * __Few hours? Maybe less.__



 

Dean picks up his football and slumps onto his bed, back on the wall, legs drawn up.

 

  * __I hope less__



 

He hopes his response doesn’t sound as needy as he thinks it does. But Cas’s reply makes him snort gently and twitch a smile that warms his insides.

 

  * __Yeah, me too_ _  
_ _Wanna spend the night with me?__



 

Dean smirks.

 

  * __Only since we first met, Cas_ _  
  
__


  * _I noticed, believe me_ _  
  
_


  * _Dick._ _  
  
_


  * _You like it when I’m mean_ _  
  
_


  * _I like it better when you shuddup_



 

Cas’s reply to this kills the humour and playful tone of their texts to such a degree that Dean barks out a laugh, sat alone in his room, on his bed.

 

  * __I’ve missed you, Dean._ _  
  
__


  * _It’s been… 8 days?_ _  
  
_


  * _8 days too many_ _  
  
_


  * _Damn but you’re needy, Cas_ _  
  
_


  * _Only for you_ _  
_ _Always you_



 

Dean smirks again, but swallows and curls his legs up to his chest. Damn, if Cas knew half the things he did to Dean.

“Hey, brother,” Benny grins, entering their dorm. “How was your summer?”

Dean practically beams.

Benny looks as though he expected the expression.

“Kind of awesome,” Dean admits, ignoring his friend’s patronising smile.

“Only ‘kind of’?” Benny repeats, raising his eyebrows at Dean.

Dean grins and tosses his football over to his friend.

“Alright,” He concedes. “One of the best ever. What about you?”

Benny smiles lazily and sits on his bed, shrugging.

“Parents fightin’, which wasn’t so good…” His smile flickers into a frown, but only momentarily, before his lips are twitching upwards again and his expression is turning from troubled to lighthearted and thoughtful. “Got to see my niece, which was nice. Stayin’ with my brother and his fiancé; they’ve got a little girl. She’s gonna be a troublemaker, that one,” He grins.

“Yeah?” Dean chuckles. “How old is she?”

“Eighteen months, and about the cutest thing you’ll ever see.” Benny shifts and lies back on his bed, tossing the football back to Dean and folding his arms behind his head. “She likes painting—don’t matter what it  _ is  _ she paints, as long as she paints  _ something. ‘ _ Least,” Benny chuckles, “that’s the way  _ she  _ sees it.”

“That’s cute,” Dean laughs.

“Well, at first,” Benny agrees. “Cute and messy. And then a bitch to clean up. You ever tried cleaning a  _ wall  _ before, Dean?”

“Can’t say I have,” Dean admits. Benny bites his tongue, grinning, and rolls his eyes.

“It’s not easy.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You like kids?”

“Uh,” Dean shrugs, tossing the ball up and catching it again. “I guess.” He considers this answer for a moment. “I always looked after Sammy when we were kids, and then Jo… So babies, sure. When they get older than that, though, I kind of have no idea. Like, when kids hit five years old, I feel like they become  _ assholes—” _

Benny barks out a laugh.

“Kids can’t be  _ assholes,  _ Dean—how could you even say that?”

“Wanna bet?” Dean grins. “I’ve got two younger siblings and way too much experience for you to try to call me out on this.”

“They’re all literally so innocent,” Benny chuckles. “They  _ can’t  _ be—”

“Nah, you’re wrong. Give a few years, you’ll be agreeing with me.”

“So you don’t actually like kids?”

“I do,” Dean protests, laughing. “I just recognise their faults.”

Benny snorts and shakes his head.

“Anyway,” He chuckles, “I was gonna say that this summer was the summer I realised that I like kids.”

“And that’s  _ all  _ you did, all summer?” Dean raises his eyebrows. Benny grins and rolls his eyes.

“Pretty much,” He replies sarcastically. “Heard you stayed with Ezekiel?”

“Yep,” Dean confirms. “Never eaten so many smores in my life.”

“Wait, are you complaining about that?”

Dean grins, laughing, and shakes his head.

“Not complaining,” He smirks. “It was awesome. I’ve actually gotta go see Zeke now—”

“ _ Got to?”  _ Benny repeats, raising his eyebrows at his roommate.

“Shut up,” Dean bites down on his amusement. “He’s bored. You wanna come with?”

“Sure,” Benny shrugs, sitting up. “You know, your relationship with Ezekiel seems to be the kind my brother has with his daughter.”

“Ezekiel is  _ not  _ my kid.”

“No?” Benny chortles as they exit the dorm. “Well… Let’s agree to disagree?”

Dean snorts and shoves Benny playfully.

“Asshole.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I missed you.”

“So needy,” Benny rolls his eyes, then smiles warmly, affection sparking behind his cool, bright, blue-gray gaze. “Dating Cas has turned you soft.”

“You’re telling me,” Dean jokes.

“So when’s Cas gonna be here?”

“Couple of hours,” Dean shrugs. “I don’t think he’s very sure. But he texted me saying a few hours, so hopefully not too long.”

“Hopefully,” Benny agrees. “His sister starts college this year, right?”

“Right.”

“Cas gets along with her?”

“Cas  _ loves  _ her. For years, they’ve only had each other.”

“That’s cute.”

“Yeah. Difficult for them, I guess, but it’s great they get along so well.”

“You guys’ve been dating for a while,” Benny smiles thoughtfully. Dean frowns.

“Yeah, I guess,” He admits. “What’s your point?”

“Nothin’,” Benny shrugs, feigning carelessness. “Just think it’s nice.”

“Yeah,” Dean doesn’t stop frowning as they enter Ezekiel’s block. “Well… I guess it is…”

“You’re so easily embarrassed,” Benny snorts as Dean pushes Ezekiel’s door open.

“ _ Finally,”  _ Ezekiel grumbles from inside the room. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you?”

“I see what you mean about him being a kid,” Dean snorts to Benny, who chuckles, even as Zeke catches what it is Dean has said and throws a pillow at them both.

“Don’t get bitchy with me just ‘cause Cas is late.”

“I’m not getting bitchy,” Dean frowns.

_ “Sure  _ you aren’t.”

“You know I can just leave, right, Zeke?:” Dean grins. “I don’t have to take your shit.”

Ezekiel snorts as Dean sits down on Cas’s bed. Benny grabs a beanbag.

About two hours later, Cas appears, and greets Benny with a nod and smile, Ezekiel with a reluctant hug, and Dean with a sincere one, hot breath skittering over the human’s neck and making him inexplicably shiver. He considers for a moment how strange it is that he misses Cas so much when the angel is gone. Especially when considering the fact that, despite Benny’s pretensions, they really  _ haven’t  _ been dating that long. Not even a year.

So why does Dean feel so strongly about Cas?

They stay and talk for a few hours; Benny sharing more details of time spent with his brother and niece, Ezekiel filling Dean and Castiel in on the rest of his summer, after Rach, Cas and Dean returned to Dean’s place. Pretty soon, Benny gets up and informs Dean that he’ll be heading back to their room. Dean decides to stay with Cas.

That night, lying in Cas’s bed next to the angel, with Ezekiel snoring softly across from him and Castiel’s breath warm and tender on his neck, Dean thinks about how long it is that he and Cas will be together. It’s weird, because not knowing the future, Dean has no idea what it is he ought to expect; can only  _ hope  _ that he and the angel next to him get a happy ending, a happy ending with each other. But what if they don’t? And what does a happy ending involve, exactly?

It’s better to think of the now, he decides. The now and the breath on his skin, the hands curled into his stomach and the arms wrapped around his body. The tattoo of Cas’s heartbeat on his back, how chest-to-spine it thumps against Dean’s body, how Dean can time his breathing to match it. How warm and soft the angel’s wings are, how they drape themselves against Dean’s ankles and how the touch is close to heaven to him.

“You awake?” Asks a familiar, gruff voice behind Dean that rumbles across the slope of Dean’s back and makes him smile involuntarily into the embracing darkness of the room.

“Uh-huh,” Dean confirms, reaching down to trace his fingertips along the ridges of Castiel’s knuckles. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs, the motion slight and muted. “I just wanted to talk.”

Dean chuckles, warm and rough, into the darkened air.

“Damn it, Cas, I need to sleep”

The angel snorts into Dean’s flesh.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dean beams despite himself. “What did you want to talk about?”

“What’s your favourite movie?” Castiel asks. “I can’t believe I don’t know.”

“You probably do,” Dean chuckles. “It’s just that you prefer to talk about weird, existential shit with me, normally. This is a weirdly harmless question.”

Castiel smiles into Dean’s neck.

“Something with Clint Eastwood? Or probably Star Wars, since you’re a giant dork—”

Dean grins and rolls over in the bed to press a kiss to Cas’s lips.

“Shut up,” He smiles, despite himself. “What’s your favourite movie?”

Castiel hums softly, his hands on Dean’s sides, thumbs grazing against the ridges of Dean’s hipbones.

“What kind of favourite?” He asks. “Like, the kind of favourite where you watch it whenever you’re sick or sad and you feel better straight away? Or the kind of favourite where you have to share it with everyone? Or the kind of favourite where you  _ can’t  _ share it with anyone? Where it’s yours and only yours and it’s intimate and special and—”

“Fuck, Cas, you over complicate  _ everything _ .”

“Fine,” Cas rolls his eyes. “Dead Poets Society?”

“Could’ve called that,” Dean snorts.

“Why?” Castiel frowns.

“‘Cause,” Dean grins, “you’re pretentious and outdated as fuck.  _ That’s  _ why.”

“I don’t know  _ how  _ you can stand to be my boyfriend, Dean,” Castiel replies dryly. Dean laughs in the darkened room.

“Yeah, you were a bit of a charity case, to be honest,” Dean chuckles as Cas nudges him. “But you have your redeeming features. So.”

“So?” Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“So I decided to date you,” Dean shrugs. “because of those redeeming parts of your personality. And looks.”

“Be more specific?”

“So I can indulge your ego a little more?”

“After tearing it down so brutally just now, yes.”

Dean has to stifle his laughter into Castiel’s neck.

“You can be pretty funny.”

“Only ‘pretty funny’?” Castiel raises his eyebrows at Dean in the pretty, pale moonlight.

“And you make me happy, I guess,” Dean grins.

“You guess?” Castiel repeats. Dean snorts out another laugh.

“And you’re sensitive and kind of clueless and I guess I find it pretty cute.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Yeah, like I said, charity.”

Castiel grins and looks away from Dean, shaking his head.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do with you,” He hums. Dean chuckles.

“You also have pretty eyes,” He beams.

“I always think the same thing about you,” Cas comments, his gaze turning soft.

“And I like how I feel like you understand me.”

Castiel smiles properly this time, leaning forward to kiss softly at Dean’s lips.

“I’m glad you think I do,” The angel replies. “Though you’re far to complicated for me to ever understand fully.”

“I dunno,” Dean bites down on his smile. “You come pretty close.”

“You’re cute.”

“You’re patronising.”

Cas kisses Dean again.

“I’m glad I have you.”

“I’m sure you are,” Dean grins smugly.

Castiel laughs so loudly it wakes Ezekiel up.

 

… 

 

“So I’ve worked out what it is about Halloween,” Ezekiel states, sat on his bed, studying.

Dean snorts next to Castiel.

“Oh, yeah?” He raises his eyebrows. Castiel wants to remind him that he has an assignment due in tomorrow that he’s been stressing out over all week, but Dean seems too happy, looking up from his laptop and notebook, sat on Castiel’s bed, to interrupt. “And what’s that?”

“You get to be someone  _ completely  _ different for a day—or night, or whatever—and like, not give a shit about who you are, at least for a couple of hours. That’s kinda sad, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know how you managed to make costumes depressing.”

“ _ I  _ didn’t make it depressing,” Ezekiel shakes his head. “It’s a depressing concept. But it’s cute at the same time, you know?”

“I don’t think I do,” Dean shakes his head, smiling distractedly as Castiel’s hands loop round his waist.

“I’m guessing you’ve already got your costume planned, Ezekiel?” Castiel asks his roommate, who grins in a guileless, wolfish manner.

“You bet I have,” He confirms. “Me and Benny both. But I’m not telling you what it is.”

“You and Benny planned matching costumes without me?” Dean asks, obviously offended. Ezekiel snorts at the human, apparently not able to contain it.

“And Gabe,” He shrugs, “but I assumed you’d want to do something with Cas!”

“Cas isn’t gonna want to,” Dean grumbles, glaring accusingly at Castiel, who can’t help but smirk in return. “For however much you love Halloween, Zeke, Cas  _ hates  _ it.”

“That’s not true,” Castiel shakes his head. Dean glares skeptically at him.

“Cas, don’t you remember that time you literally ranted to me about how much you hated Halloween?”

“I said I hated the racist costumes, not the  _ holiday.” _

“No, I think Dean’s right,” Ezekiel grins. “And besides, last year I had to literally  _ force  _ you into that pirate costume—”

“You didn’t force me into the pirate part of the costume, you forced me into the  _ zombie  _ part of it.”

“Well, whatever,” Dean shrugs. “You’re still not gonna want to do a couple’s costume with me, so the day’s gonna be total shit.”

Castiel glances over to Ezekiel and is glad to see him smirking at Dean’s pout, too.

“Fine,” Castiel caves at Dean’s indignant doe-eyes. “What would you want to go as?”

“Something from Star Wars.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“See, Cas, I  _ knew  _ you’d do this!”

“I didn’t say anything!” Castiel exclaims.

“You didn’t  _ have  _ to,” Dean rolls his eyes. “I know you well enough to be able to tell what you’re thinking.”

“Okay, well I’m just not happy with dressing as an alien—”

“You could be Luke, I could be—”

“Or  _ anything  _ from a sci-fi film,” Castiel finishes. “We could go as cowboys, like you did last year? I liked what you wore.”

“Like you paid any attention to me,” Dean rolls his eyes. Ezekiel barks out a laugh, thoroughly entertained, and Castiel shoots a glare in his direction.

“You’re not helping, Ezekiel,” He hisses.

“Why would I want to help?” The ther angel frowns indignantly. “This is hilarious. Is this your first fight?” He asks, obviously delighted.

“This isn’t a fight,” Castiel shakes his head, but Dean is hardly paying attention.

“And that’s just it, isn’t it, Cas?” Dean continues, scowling. “I was a cowboy  _ last  _ year, I can’t be one this year as well!”

“There’s no  _ law  _ that says you have to dress as something different each year—”

“No written one, sure,” Dean shrugs. “But this is an  _ unspoken  _ law. And I have standards.”

“Dean, you’re dressing up on Halloween, I don’t know what kind of standard you’re talking about, but—”

Ezekiel is nearly crying with laughter. Dean shoots Castiel what is just about the filthiest look Castiel thinks he has ever received from the human.

“Fine, fine,” Castiel raises his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry—but I’m  _ still  _ not happy with going as someone from Star Wars.”

“You won’t be happy with  _ anything  _ I suggest,” Dean pouts. Castiel knows it’s inappropriate to find the look adorable in this moment, but really, he can’t help himself. Dean is  _ captivating  _ and  _ gorgeous. _

“That’s not true,” Castiel shakes his head.

“Yes it  _ is.” _

“Suggest something else.”

“Hey,” Ezekiel grins, “so, Cas, no Star Wars, right?”

Castiel frowns suspiciously at his roommate.

“Right…”

Ezekiel’s gaze flickers over to Dean for a fraction of a second.

“But you want to prove Dean wrong, right?”

“I don’t want to prove Dean  _ wrong—” _

“Literally the only reason you’re up for getting in costume is because you wanna prove me wrong—”

“It is  _ not,”  _ Castiel scowls at Dean.

“Then you’re up for whatever?” Ezekiel asks. “Apart from Star Wars?”

“Sure,” Castiel doesn’t cease eyeing his roommate suspiciously.

“Cool,” Ezekiel grins. “The how about this: Dean goes as Kirk. You go as Spock. Not Star Wars, Star  _ Trek.” _

Dean starts laughing, expression more than a little vindictive. Castiel gives him the filthiest look he’s  _ ever  _ given.

“ _ No.” _

“You already said yes.”

“I did  _ not.” _

“Yes you did,” Ezekiel points out, expression saturated with mirth.

“You tricked me!”

“I didn’t  _ trick.  _ And anyway, that hardly matters. You said yes. You have to.”

“You have to,” Dean agrees, nodding seriously. Castiel frowns heavily at him.

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“You do if you want to carry on calling me your boyfriend.”

“You’re  _ blackmailing  _ me?”

“That depends,” Dean grins. “Is it working?”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“I’m taking a walk,” He tries to stand, but Dean tugs him down, laughing.

“C’mon, Cas, don’t be like that.”

“What? Offended that you’re trying to manipulate me?”

“So it’s not working at all?”

“No.”

“Fine, then I guess this is the end of our relationship,” Dean shrugs matter-of-factly. Castiel blanches. Ezekiel roars with laughter. “You can stay inside on Halloween, or whatever, but I’m gonna be out screwing nines and—”

“Fuck you, Dean, fine, I’ll do it,” Castiel groans, putting his head in his hands. Dean beams, Ezekiel snorts, and Castiel thinks of how ready he is to die. “But I’m never forgetting this. You  _ owe  _ me.”

“Cool,” Dean shrugs. “That’s whatever.”

“No it’s not,” Castiel shakes his head. “You  _ blackmailed  _ me—”

“It’s not blackmail if I don’t mean it,” Dean grins.

“He’s not wrong,” Ezekiel interjects.

“He’s not right, either,” Castiel retorts, glaring over at his roommate.

“You’re an idiot,” Dean beams, getting back to studying.

“I’m glad you think so.”

“I’m glad I’m dating you,” Dean doesn’t stop beaming. Castiel softens a little at this.

“Gross,” Ezekiel wrinkles his nose. “You had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?” He frowns at Dean. “It was such a beautiful moment, and you had to—”

“Shut-up Ezekiel,” Dean answers back. “You organised a group costume  _ without  _ me.”

“Only so something like this would happen,” Ezekiel smirks.

“You’re unstable.”

“I’m a genius.”

“Manipulative.”

“You’re one to talk,” Ezekiel leers. “You threatened to  _ dump  _ Cassie—”

“As a  _ joke—” _

“Get back to work, Dean,” Castiel’s roommate leers. “Haven’t you got some  _ really important  _ assignment, or something dumb and nerdy like that?”

Dean shoots a filthy look in Ezekiel’s direction, but returns to his studies. Castiel catches him suppressing a smirk as he writes.

His bumps his shoulder against Dean’s.

“So, you really wanna go as Spock?” Dean asks, about a half-hour later. Castiel smiles involuntarily.

“ _ Want  _ to?” He repeats. “No. Not really. But I will.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Dean grins.

“It  _ is  _ kind of perfect,” Ezekiel points out. “Cas as Spock. Dean as Kirk.”

“I guess perfect is a matter of perspective.”

_ “I _ think it’s perfect,” Dean states. Castiel shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

“I’m sure you do.”

“You’re so cold, Cassie,” Ezekiel giggles.

“I’m just reminding Dean of what it was he first started crushing on—”

Dean lands a soft punch on Castiel’s arm while Ezekiel snorts with laughter.

 

…

 

“Well, I think you look great,” Dean grins wolfishly on the evening of October thirty-first, or rather, early morning of November first, as the pair stumble back to the human’s dorm. Castiel pulls an unconvinced face, but is otherwise too stoned to care much.

“Can’t believe you  _ blackmailed  _ me into dressing as Spock…”

“I didn’t blackmail you,” Dean beams. “You  _ chose  _ to, of your own—”

“It wasn’t free will, you were threatening to break up with me,” Castiel deadpans. Somehow, despite their playful fighting, they still hold each other’s hands in a loose and relaxed and warm grip.

“You knew I was joking,” Dean smirks. “How could you not?”

Castiel eases a bit.

“Well, maybe,” He admits.

“Which means that on some level, you  _ wanted  _ to be dressed as Spock.”

“Now that  _ isn’t  _ true,” Castiel glares, expression hardening. Then it softens in an instant, at the look Dean gives him in response, jade irises like orbs that have in them whole forests shimmering in the moonlight.

“Why isn’t it true?” Dean asks, grinning.

“I did it because I wanted to make you happy.”

And that’s the truth.

Which is probably why Castiel’s words come out so earnest in the cool of the darkening air.

It swallows them, and at the softening of Dean’s gaze; the way his features seem to tremble for a moment with the temptation to brush Castiel’s confession off with a dry, sarcastic comment, or one that ridicules Castiel’s honest vulnerability, but they only twitch, cannot seem to flicker upwards into a mirthful smile, a lopsided grin, a good-humoured, long suffering eye-roll; Castiel falls in love with Dean a little more.

Stillness seems to settle all around them until the only movement is the quiet vibration of air between them, the way their bodies seem to hum with it, with this longing and loving and amusement at one another. Castiel falls in love with Dean a little more, then a lot more, then infinitely more, more than he had thought possible for his tired heart at the young and cynical age of twenty-one, he loves Dean a little more and loves that Dean makes this possible, makes it possible every day for Castiel’s heart to grow in depth and capacity, for his feelings to flower and move and shimmer and bloom and explode and creep through all the fibres and nerves and sinew of his body.

His lips have met Dean’s. Was it Dean who kissed him, or he who kissed Dean? It hardly matters now, in any case; hands on necks, fingers in hair, noses pressed together, eyes squeezed shut as though they are both wishing the rest of the world away, Castiel is kissing Dean and Dean is kissing Castiel, and Castiel knows then and there that he doesn’t just want this to last beyond college, to stretch into the years beyond that, to swallow up their young adult lives together; he wants this forever, wants Dean and his touches and his laughs and his smiles, his conversation and his teasing and his deadpan looks, forever. Forever and ever. Until he is old and gray and ready to leave this world. Forever and ever.

Dean is gasping for air when they finally pull away. His warm body trembles. Castiel’s fingers must bruise his flesh with how tightly he holds Dean’s arms. He doesn’t let go. He can’t.

Dean doesn’t seem to want him to.

 

…

 

Nightmare. Nightmare again. Dean twisting in the sheets but he can’t wake up, for this is one of those dreams he  _ can’t _ pull himself from.

_ “Let me make it up to you,”  _ Gray eyes that don’t mirror the smile on the lips beneath them flicker with something dangerous, something that, a matter of months ago, made Dean want nothing more than to be fucked by their owner. Now he just wants peace, needs an out,  _ has  _ an out, is trying to get out, but Alastair isn’t letting him.

_ “Al,  _ no,  _ you cheated on me, you cheated, I can’t just—” _

Dean’s heart still hurts with the betrayal of it all and he cannot nearly understand why it should; he hates himself for his need to be loved, to be approved of, for Alastair to finally settle and say  _ yes, this will do,  _ with all sincerity, when looking at Dean.

These thoughts, along with fear, overwhelm him.

_ “Let me make it up to you,”  _ Alastair’s words come out harder now. There’s no room for dispute, here, apparently, but Dean tries to anyway.

It doesn’t work; as he breathes in to finally,  _ finally,  _ tell Al to fuck himself and get the hell out of Dean’s life, glaring hard, Alastair surges forward and kisses Dean, hard, biting at his mouth as he does so, drawing blood, and Dean tries to squirm back, eyes wide open, horrified, not least at the fact that Al’s eyes are wide open too, boring into Dean’s as he kisses the younger man as he bites again, cutting into Dean’s bottom lip. Dean whimpers. 

Alastair’s hands stop him from moving. An iron grip, an iron grip on his hips and the back of his head, forcing him intimately close, they stop him stepping back, and Dean’s hands on the older man’s shoulders pushing desperately are useless; Al is a deadweight, immovable, determined to plunder into his mouth with forced intimacy. Then Al’s eyes slide shut and suddenly the kiss is all softness, passionate intensity replacing the unforgiving nature of his touch, and dammit,  _ dammit  _ and damn Dean for giving in to it, but he can’t help it.

This is the softness he craves. The softness he’s craved all his life, the approval he breathes for.

Why is it that it had to come from  _ Alastair? _

_ “You need this,”  _ Alastair says slowly.  _ “You need  _ me.  _ Why are you tryin’ to end things, baby? We got a good thing going.” _

Dean tries to shake his head, tries to take a step back, but something stops him, and this time it isn’t Alastair’s steel grip on his body.

As if sensing Dean’s doubt and temptation to dispute this, to rebel, but internal conflict on whether to do so, Alastair kisses Dean again, and then continues.

_ “Baby,”  _ He says, taking Dean’s face in his hands and stroking the ridges of his cheekbones with his thumbs,  _ “baby,”  _ He coos, soothing Dean’s doubts and disobedience, if only for a moment,  _ “I know I cheated. I know it hurt you. I’m sorry. You hear?”  _ He speaks slowly and strangely, as he always did, nasal and oil-slick and slightly gritty.  _ “You hear?”  _ He repeats. Dean nods, trembling and the hard, unforgiving press of Al’s fingers on his body.  _ “Good,”  _ Alastair smiles. Again, it doesn’t reach his eyes.  _ “Good,”  _ He smoothes Dean’s t-shirt with forced tenderness.  _ “I’m glad. I’m glad you understand. You do understand, don’t you, Dean?” _

As is so often the case when Dean is speaking with Alastair, the world seems to be growing blurred and Dean feels confused.

_ “Understand what?”  _ Dean asks, voice oddly void of emotion.

_ “Why it was I cheated on you,”  _ Alastair replies simply. Dean gapes. He shakes his head, frowning.  _ “Dean,”  _ Alastair smirks.  _ “Come on, now. Why does anybody cheat? Why does anybody cheat on  _ anybody?  _ Do you know why?”  _ He pauses, staring at Dean, close enough that Dean can feel lukewarm breath hitting his face.  _ “You weren’t giving me enough, Dean. You weren’t enough. You can understand that, can’t you?”  _ He asks.  _ “You weren’t enough.”  _ The words hit Dean like a ton of bricks, shattering into him, devastating him despite everything, despite how Dean wants to not give a damn in the world. 

_ “You weren’t enough,”  _ Alastair says again.  _ “But we can work this out. We can work all of it out. We can give it another go.  _ I’m  _ willing to give it another go. Are you?”  _ He asks, frowning, voice somehow accusing Dean of some kind of betrayal before Dean has even made it.  _ “Do you think you can be enough? Do you think you can be enough for me?” _

Dean falters, nodding.

Wait, why is he nodding? Why is Alastair speaking like this, like  _ he’s  _ the one willing to forgive Dean, as though  _ Dean’s  _ the one who’s done something wrong?!

_ “Do you even  _ want  _ to be enough?”  _ Alastair asks, not missing a beat.  _ “Do you want to be enough for me?” _

More than anything.

Dean doesn’t realise that he’s said this, out loud, until Alastair is kissing him again, passion and fury and tenderness returned, Dean shocked, shaking, glad to be in Al’s arms again, heart pounding, head panicking, glad to be given another chance.

_ “Let me take you out tonight,”  _ Alastair smiles, pulling back, gray eyes staring intently into Dean’s.  _ “Somewhere nice. Let’s celebrate. To moving on,”  _ He says, triumphant, squeezing Dean’s flesh.  _ “To forgiveness! To Dean being enough for me!” _

Dean doesn’t know how to take these words, and maybe in another mouth, they’d sound sincere, or less as though all of this were Dean’s fault, Dean’s doing. As it is, they pull Dean on a thousand taut wires towards Al, and Dean is pressing his face into Alastair’s neck without a second thought, desperate for forgiveness for his willingness to throw everything away at Alastair fucking someone new, desperate for forgiveness for Dean’s lack of loyalty and his betrayal, desperate for approval, desperate for  _ enough,  _ desperate for love.

Then images flash at Dean’s skull with a brightness and intensity that seems similar to shards of frozen steel crashing into his mind with horrifying, agonising precision.

Images of the date. Images of post-fight fucking back at Alastair’s apartment, this time soft and slow and so unlike every other time Alastair fucked Dean. Images of lying naked and staring into gray eyes and hating himself and somehow not being able to hate the gray eyes he stared at and needing them more than anything. Images of false smiles, of conceit. Then sleep. Then waking at a phone vibrating, frantic—Dean’s phone. Dean picking up. Ellen shouting and crying down the receiver. Telling Dean to come home, asking why he hasn’t, why he’s forgiven Alastair. Alastair snatching it and hanging up. Images of a fight.

Images of accusations. Of  _ “Why can’t you obey me? Why must you betray me?  _ I’m  _ your family, now!” _

Images of Dean shouting back, finally giving back as hard as Alastair does, of picking up his clothes strewn round the bedroom in last night’s fervour of forgiveness and promises, images of jeans bundled into Dean’s arms, of Alastair grabbing hold of Dean and ripping the clothing from Dean’s arms as Dean tries to pull it on and make his way out, of Dean being shoved up against a wall so that he hits his head, of Alastair smirking as Dean’s blood runs hot down the nape of his neck, of Alastair forcing a kiss, saying  _ “Baby, baby, Dean, my love, this is what you were meant for, don’t you see? This is what it’s all about. This is what makes us so good. Baby, stay. I love you, don’t you love me? Don’t you see what you do to me? You drive me so crazy, baby, baby. Don’t you love me? Baby. Baby.” _

Images of Dean honestly replying, yes, yes,  _ yes I do love you, and that’s the problem, that’s why I can’t do this, couldn’t do this, that’s why I have to do this now, have to leave you. _

Images of Alastair lashing out at this, of Dean having pushed him too far, of Dean realising he’s pushed too far and begging out apologies and sorries until they are incoherent, of sliding down onto the floor, naked, clutching his punched eye, shaking with fear and regret and desperation and longing for tenderness.

_ “I’m sorry I’m sorry Al I’m sorry I’m so—” _

_ “No you’re not,”  _ Suddenly there’s no mirth, none of the usual mocking, now it’s anger and volume and this fills Dean with terror.  _ “You’re not sorry. I gave you another chance, Dean, and you fucked up  _ again _!” _

“I  _ fucked up?!” _

Dean doesn’t know where this defiance surges from, can’t pinpoint the final spark in his chest that lit it into a flare, how it is Alastair’s insults hadn’t dampened it into nothing, but he hates it instantly.

_ “You’re not leaving,”  _ Alastair shakes his head.  _ “You need to be punished. I can’t let you get away with this. You’ve got a lesson to learn, and I’m gonna teach it.” _

_ “Al, no, please—”  _ Dean begs again, fight gone.  _ “Al  _ please,  _ I’m sorry, just let me go, let me go home, I’ll come back I promise but please let me go home, Ellen’s worried—” _

Even as Dean speaks, Dean’s phone vibrates and his adoptive mom’s name flashes up on the screen as it rattles along the floor.

_ “No more apologies,”  _ Alastair shakes his head, quiet and thoughtful.  _ “None.” _

Dean tries to run, tries to dart up off the floor, head spinning from where it was hit, and makes it out of Alastair’s bedroom, but he doesn’t make it to Alastair’s door.

He doesn’t make it.

_ “I love you, Dean, why do you make me do this?”  _ Alastair asks. Images of Dean pinned to the floor, cheek splintered by rough wood, crying and unable to stop, going numb to the pain and somehow feeling it all the more intensely as Alastair’s cruel, unforgiving hands stop Dean from running away, stop Dean from fighting, if he even could, stop Dean from ever being able to feel clean or worthy again.

_ “Heaven,”  _ Alastair sings the words in Dean’s ear, chest pressed up against Dean’s back.  _ “I’m in heaven,”  _ Dean sobs again as blood trickles down his skin, hot and sticky.  _ “And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak.”  _ Dean groans and tries to move but finds that he can’t, not even an inch, and thinks that Alastair must have cracked a couple of his ribs in throwing Dean to the ground and keeping him there.  _ “And I seem to find the happiness I seek, When we’re out dancing cheek to cheek.” _

Dean chokes out a foul mixture of bile and blood and watches, disconnected, as it pools onto the floorboards and stings his nose, all acid and metal.

He wakes up coughing up vomit.

It never seems to stop.

 

…

 

Dean hasn’t stopped crying for the past hour and he isn’t letting Castiel touch him.

The human sits, trembling, on the floor, shuddering and convulsing and vomiting at regular intervals, so that the vomit is nothing more than bile and he sways where he sits, knees hugged up to chest, with dehydration, eyes distant and unreachable, skin pale and burning hot.

He’s feverish, he won’t let Castiel touch him, nor will he let Castiel get him cold water; he shuddered and threw up again when Castiel suggested that he sing to Dean to comfort him, he hardly speaks at all and Ezekiel left the room out of awkwardness the moment Castiel glanced up at him from next to Dean’s retching form to indicate that this was probably something private and terrifying for Dean.

“What can I do, Dean?” Castiel asks, trying to mask his own panic at the fact that  _ nothing  _ he has done so far, that normally works at soothing Dean and bringing him back to the present, rocking him to peace once more, is working, when it has worked every time before. “What do you need? Please, Dean—”

“I need to break up with you,” Dean shakes his head. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t carry on—not like this, not with the nightmares, always, I’m so broken—”

“Dean—”

But Castiel doesn’t know what it is he’s going to say. What it is he  _ should  _ say. Words fail him, Dean doesn’t even look at him, only rocks frantically like he’s losing his mind and presses his head between his knees as though he wants to forget the world and what it’s done to him.

“Dean,” Castiel tries again. “It’s okay, you’re not broken, you’re healing—”

“Does this  _ look  _ like healing?” Dean asks, head snapping back up to Castiel, eyes filled suddenly with contempt. His nose has started bleeding. “Does it  _ look  _ like I’m on the mend?!”

“It takes time, Dean—”

“It’s had nothing  _ but  _ time!” Dean exclaims, eyes wringing out tears. “I can’t do it any more, can’t do it to you, you don’t deserve this,” Dean hits his skull with his knuckles, fists balled.

“ _ Dean _ ,” Castiel begs, stilling Dean’s hands. “Stop—I’m not leaving you, I don’t care; we can work this out—”

It’s one of those strange fractions of a moment in which everything seems to last an eternity. Whatever the right thing was to say, apparently Castiel hasn’t come  _ close  _ to saying it; quite the opposite in fact.

Dean’s lip curls. He snatches his hands away from Castiel, expression filthy, contempt filling his gaze, then pushes Castiel away from him, hard.

Then the human starts sobbing.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do. Dean doesn’t want to be touched, and definitely not by Castiel, he doesn’t want to talk, and  _ definitely  _ doesn’t seem to like anything Castiel can think to say, so should Castiel just  _ go? _

And has Dean just broken up with him?

A tear, already cold on his skin, surprises him by slipping down his cheek.

Dean’s sobbing continues.

“I’m sorry,” Dean shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Cas, I’m so sorry—”

Castiel slips his hands onto Dean’s shoulders without thinking and is about to withdraw them in a panicked apology, when Dean leans forward and presses his face into Castiel’s shoulder, sobbing again.

“I’m sorry—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Castiel shakes his head, fingers slipping through Dean’s hair. “Nothing at all. You hear me? You’ve done nothing wrong—”

“How can you say that—”

“Please, Dean,” Castiel begs. He begins rocking the human slowly. “This isn't your fault. Please believe me. None of it was your fault. You don’t need to talk about it, you can say if you don’t want me touching you. You  _ don’t  _ need to apologise. Please, Dean. Trust me. I won’t hurt you. I don’t ever want to. You’re everything, I care about you, you don’t need to be sorry. Please don’t be sorry. Please trust me.”

Dean looks up.

“I do.”

His voice is hoarse from crying and shouting for so long, and from the vomit which must have burned his throat. Castiel gazes earnestly at Dean and Dean gazes earnestly back.

“I do,” Dean says again, new, silent tears leaving tracks down his face.

Castiel thumbs at Dean’s tears.

“I’m sorry,” The human rasps out again.

“You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’m sorry—” It’s like Dean doesn’t know how to say anything else, so Castiel squeezes him to his chest again and holds him for at least another half-hour, just holding, before helping Dean up and into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

They sit and talk in the kitchen until sunrise and Castiel feels dead in all his classes the next day, his eyes completely bloodshot, but he doesn’t regret a moment of it.

They talk about everything. About how Dean walked in on Alastair fucking  someone else and had stormed out of Alastair’s apartment, how when he’d gotten home Ellen had told him to end it and he’d finally been able to see sense. About how he’d called Alastair and told him they were done, about how Alastair had asked to see Dean the next day to talk it over, about how agreeing to this was the decision that led to all Dean’s nightmares, his scars, his seemingly random spikes of distance.

Then they talk about what TV shows they watched as kids and what song was the first song they can remember listening to. They talk about Dean’s classes and Dean’s sketches and Dean’s favourite architects and what Dean’s ideal home would look like: white with a blue slate roof, and a front porch with ivy growing round it. A big, grand fireplace to sit in front of and put things on the mantelpiece, a huge front lawn with flowerbeds that Dean can garden. A backyard with vegetables in it. Not in the centre of town, but not in the middle of nowhere. Lots of trees. A tire swing, not even for kids, just for fun for  _ anybody _ .

Then they talk about how broken Dean had felt in the hospital, after that night with Alastair. Dean cries in an odd kind of numb way as he recounts how he couldn’t even speak to his family, felt too dirty, wanted to die, confesses that he’d ripped off all the tubes and wires connected to him hoping it would kill him and had cried until he’d vomited and they’d had to sedate him.

Then they talk about parallel universes and how maybe there’s one where Nicholas Cage isn’t so weird and another where Led Zeppelin wrote songs for children and were the equivalent of The Wiggles.

This thought has Dean nearly giggling with laughter, his nose wrinkles and he closes his eyes and Castiel wants him to always feel as happy as he at least looks in this moment.

Dean cuts all his classes the next day and speaks to a counsellor. They arrange to meet every week until Dean feels as though he’s getting better again, and once Dean thinks he’s on the mend, they’ll meet every other week.

Dean tells Castiel that he wouldn’t want to date anyone else, ever, other than Castiel, and that that’s never going to change.

Castiel prays it’s true. He kisses the tip of Dean’s nose and comes so close to telling Dean he loves him that it feels as though the words are clawing at his lips, but again, he can’t, because it feels as though he’s standing in an ocean at the edge of a sand bed, staring out into a canyon, an abyss of black seawater, and he’s being asked to step out into it.

Expecting Dean to love again, after everything, would be too much. Dean is hurt. Dean is still healing. Honestly, that Dean is dating is surprising enough. But love is too far, and Castiel would go too far in asking for it, still too far even in simply confessing it.

He loves Dean. Loves him like air, loves him like something as simple and essential as earth or water. And he can’t say it, and he doesn’t, and all he can do is show it and hope that Dean knows that he is more than worthy. More than enough. More than Castiel could have ever dreamed of having and more than enough for him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry for the hurt there, lots of love and fluff and kindness to come.


	27. Love, Love, Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so so sorry this took so long!!! If you're reading To Build a Home you'll know that I've been through a bit of a shitstorm but I'm really sorry I kept you guys waiting for so long with no updates, I totally get if you got annoyed waiting for me.
> 
> Anyway, I very much hope this chapter lives up to hopes/expectations - it's the chapter where Dean and Cas FINALLY confess their feelings for one another, properly! (YAY)
> 
> So, like, fluff, and Dean and Cas being both cute and stupid. All good stuff. I really hope you all enjoy :)

 

“I can’t believe you’re not coming to visit  _ at all,”  _ Dean looks down at the icy ground he toes at with his right foot. His sneakers are tattered and torn, his bag slung loosely over his shoulder. Even in the cold, late-fall light, he looks so beautiful like this—and effortlessly so. Not for the first time, Castiel thinks of how almightily screwed he is in regards to the human.

Ellen waits to drive Dean back home and is, fortunately, allowing him to take as long as he likes to say his goodbyes.

The look on Dean’s face has an ugly, unfacable guilt winding its way in creeping, spidery motions through Castiel’s cells.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel frowns, swallowing. “I wish I was… I’ll miss you.”

The ellipsis between the first part of his sentence and its culmination in a final confession seems to bear more meaning than Castiel likes to think about.

Dean glances up.

Hope, soft and quietly sad, like gentle snowfall, dances behind the jade irises Castiel has grown so familiar with.

“Yeah?” He asks, so quiet and simple that Castiel’s heart seems to be thawed and broken at the same time. Dean’s tone always manages to be both healing and devastating.

Castiel pulls Dean in for a close hug and can make out the tattoo of Dean’s heart against his chest. It feels beautiful. The air around them is cold, and with the way they cling to one another like the rest of the world is ether, Castiel wants this moment to last forever, wants to etch it onto his skin so that it becomes as permanent to this life as his own body is, to become as essential to his soul as mind and muscle and sinew.

“Yes,” Castiel confirms, breathing out the word with all its weight and meaning into the curve of Dean’s neck, Dean’s neck that smells of woodsmoke and citrus and everything beautiful and intangible in the world. “And I know this feels like bad timing, and I’m sorry. But I’ll call. I promise I’ll call.”

“And on Christmas?” Dean pulls back, staring near pleadingly at Castiel.

“And on Christmas, too.”

Dean seems at least a little comforted, but it’s not by much.

“I know it’s bad timing. But it’ll pass so quickly,” Castiel states. “Trust me.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean seems unconvinced. “You make my nightmares better,” He admits, grudgingly. “So.”

Castiel doesn’t think before hugging Dean again.

“I packed your present, by the way—”

“You’re so patronising,” Dean laughs half-heartedly, clapping Castiel on the back.

Castiel kisses Dean. Slow and lingering. Tongue curling against Dean’s. Tracing the curve of Dean’s bottom lip. Dipping into his mouth and swallowing the gasp this elicits.

“I’ll see you soon,” Castiel promises, pulling back and bumping his forehead against Dean’s.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “I hope so.”

He squeezes Castiel’s body tight for a moment, then kisses the angel’s lips chastely, before turning and climbing into the passenger seat of Ellen’s car, dropping his bag on his lap. He waves at Castiel from the window.

“Bye, Cas.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“Have an awesome holiday.”

“You too,” Castiel smiles, giving Dean what he hopes is a soft look, warm with affection. Dean beams at the expression.

“Goodbye, Castiel,” Ellen waves to the angel. “Have a good Christmas!”

Castiel returns the sentiment, waving back to both Ellen and Dean.

He watches until they disappear completely into the distance and convinces himself that it’s a good thing that he misses Dean already. It proves how much Dean matters to him. Which is still scary, though certainly not as scary as it once was.

Which is a strangely liberating thought.

 

…

 

It’s only a few days before Dean’s birthday when Castiel finally gets to see him again. The isolation is probably good; Dean’s head has needed clearing, and a lot of it, lately—and the last thing Castiel wants is to complicate that in any kind of way. However much it is he misses the human in his absences, and however much it is that Dean’s absences feel like they toss the ground from beneath Castiel’s feet and replace it with icy waters.

As it is, Castiel spends his holidays with his sister, as usual, and Dean stays with his family. And seeing Dean again feels like the first sip of something hot and sweet on an otherwise cold and sad day.

Which is why the pair decide to go get coffee—or, more accurately, Dean gets coffee, Castiel gets tea. 

Chai, specifically, which the human seems to find  _ very  _ entertaining.

“So I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a massive, unwitting, unchangable fucking dork,” Dean starts, matter-of-factly, as Castiel pushes open the heavy, cold door to the coffee shop and holds it open for his boyfriend. They step out into frosty air. It nips at Castiel’s skin and he squints immediately, shivers skating up his flesh as he wishes that he and Dean had decided to have their drinks inside, and catch up there, instead of walking through the same park they ambled through, chattering mindlessly, on their first date.

“Fascinating,” Castiel remarks, bunching the fingers of his free hand and stuffing it into his pocket for warmth. His breath clouds prettily in the air just ahead of him and moves in sleek, spiralled patterns before disappearing into ether.

“You wanna know why?” Dean grins, the childish and reckless kind of expression that once would have Castiel frowning and squinting, or even glaring, but now has him biting down on his earnest desire to mirror it in sincerest affection.

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me, however it is that I answer.”

“‘Cause you’re drinking fucking  _ chai,  _ like some kind of hipster—”

“I don’t get to see you in over a month, and this is what you choose to say to me?” Castiel frowns with indignation, taking an offhand sip of his drink. “Shocking,” He shakes his head solemnly, turning away. “You’re a special kind of dick, Dean.”

Laughter tumbles from Dean’s lips in a near infantile matter and he bumps his shoulder against Castiel’s.

“Coffee drinkers command respect,” He states, as though this fact is at the same level of indisputability as the roundness of the earth or the existence of gravity.

“Right,” Castiel says, unconvinced. “That must be why I look up to you so much.”

Dean bumps him again.

“Honestly, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes, “if you keep on barging into me like this, I’m just going to go back to my room. Did you even  _ miss  _ me while you were gone?”

Dean’s smile softens into something a little more serious, and all but a glitter of the earlier impishness fades from his irises.

“Of course,” He answers—and is that a crack in his voice? Is it caused by Castiel, or just by the cold? “Of course,” Dean grins again, childish fervor returning, eyes glimmering with an immature, loud sense of humour once again. “I always miss you when you’re not around. It means I have no one to make fun of. Which is  _ shit.” _

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Well, I suppose I should have seen that coming.”

He quickens his pace, but Dean does the same, and then some, walking several steps ahead of Castiel and turning to be just in front of the angel, facing him and staring with those big, bright, faceted eyes the colour of miles and miles of woodland.

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Dean grins. Castiel smirks and and sighs dramatically, again chastising himself for expecting sincerity and sobriety from his boyfriend. “But I was gonna say, anyway,” Dean slows in his back-ward amble, glancing behind him to check where it is he is going and placing a gentle, stilling hand on Castiel’s shoulder, that doesn’t seem to realise how tender it is until several moments later, when it trembles for only a second, embarrassed, and removes itself. 

It hardly matters; Castiel has stopped walking, and cannot seem to sear the memory of Dean’s touch at his flesh, and the unwitting earnest affection it held, from his mind.

“What?” Castiel asks.

He realises he has inclined his head to the side, at some kind of minute, barely perceptible angle—except of course Dean would notice it—as he is so prone to do when confused. And he only realises this because of the hesitant, still saturated with affection, slightly exasperated look Dean gives for a fluttering, nervous moment, before he steels himself to say whatever it is he’s planning to get out.

A smile, small and trembling, brief as the falling of a single droplet of rain, twists at Dean’s lips.

“I really have.” Dean looks down. Apparently, this truth is too heavy for him to be able to raise his head to face.

“Have what?” Castiel frowns, still none the wiser.

Dean twitches another smile, this one begrudging and again, a little exasperated, and rolls his eyes, as though he wishes Castiel were a little better at reading between lines and understanding Dean’s strange idiosyncratic way of speaking through symbols and pauses, and sentences unfinished and words unsaid.

“Have missed you,” Dean manages to grate out, eventually, gaze flitting imperceptibly, to and from Castiel. Perhaps to hold it for too long would cause him only further embarrassment. “A lot.” Dean’s sentences are coming out adorably disjointed with a flushing, youthful kind of mortification, and it only makes Castiel love him further, harder, softer, deeper. “I’ve missed you a lot.” Dean manages to finish.

Castiel beams.

He leans forward and kisses Dean’s weathered lips, hot against the chill of the day, nearly laughing into the human’s mouth.

The thoughts he has now are hardly the kind he wants to pursue; big, looming, heavy thoughts that press all other happy, lighter thoughts out of Castiel’s skull and weigh him down with an unforgiving sense of responsibility and sense of mammoth tasks as-yet left unaccomplished.

So he wrenches back at what must be a very unexpected moment for Dean and presses a delicate kiss to the tip of the human’s nose, focussing, instead of on his thoughts, on how it is the human’s nose is so pointed and defined and how it tips, oh-so-gradually that it nearly doesn’t at all, up at the end.

And this thought makes him flood with an inexplicable, incomparable warmth.

Dean pants, surprised, into the air between them, breath again turning into clouds of heavy fog.

“I’ve missed you too,” The angel replies sincerely. “So much, Dean.”

He kisses Dean’s nose again and revels at the flush that catches itself across Dean’s cheeks, brought all the more out by the bite of the cold around the pair.

They make it to the park, and after only a little walking, decide to sit at a bench.

“Cold, huh?” Dean grins. Castiel chuckles and nods his head in confirmation at Dean’s small-talk.

“Remember on our first date, when you didn’t know what to say, so you kept bringing up the weather?” Castiel asks, chortling softly. Dean’s smile fades and morphs seamlessly into a glare.

“You didn’t know what to say, either,” He points out. “And  _ anyway,  _ I only did that  _ at first.  _ Then we settled into conversation just fine. So.”

“So?” Castiel repeats, still chuckling.

“So stop trying to embarrass me,” Dean finishes with a pout.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you—” Castiel protests, but Dean pulls a very-much unconvinced face that has the angel stifling his laughter yet again.

“Yeah, like I’d believe that,” Dean rolls his eyes. Then a smile flickers at his lips, and his eyes spark with something that seems a little like the emergence a somewhat-wicked idea. “Why do you bring this up, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel shrugs carelessly. “I’m feeling a little nostalgic, I suppose.”

“Nostalgic, huh?” Dean repeats. “What’s brought that on?”

“Our long absence from each other, maybe?” Castiel suggests.

“Cas, please,” Dean smirks. “We weren’t apart for  _ that  _ long.”

“Judging by all the times you called me, desperate for phone sex, yes we  _ were,  _ Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean flushes, not pink this time, but a deep and persistent red. “I said to  _ stop  _ trying to embarrass me, asshole.”

“Of course, a real low point from you must have been the twice in one day ordeal,” Castiel states, tone serious. “ _ Twice  _ in one day, Dean. Is phone sex even that  _ good?  _ I definitely don’t get off on it as much as you seem to, I’m just going to throw that out there—”

Dean swats at Castiel, expression grumpy and indignant.

Castiel bursts out laughing and manages to suppress it before Dean  _ actually  _ gets pissed off.

“Sorry,” He shakes his head. “Sorry, that was unfair. Back to nostalgia, that didn’t seem to annoy you so much.”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Dean rolls his eyes, but pulls a forgiving face at Castiel.

Castiel chuckles once again.

“Sorry,” He manages to smirk out. Dean snorts softly.

“So, nostalgia, huh?” Dean asks again. “Lookin’ back on all the good times?”

“Looking back on all the good times,” Castiel repeats, nodding.

“Thinking about how it is we ended up here?”

“Sure,” Castiel shrugs.

“That seems fun,” Dean states. The glimmer of mischief sparks behind his eyes again. Castiel squints again. “ So what made you want to date me, in the end?” The human grins, his hands wrapped around his coffee as though he is afraid his hands are going to fall off with cold. Castiel’s lips twitch upwards. He reaches out to ruffle at Dean’s hair in reprimand for the human’s cheekiness. Grins as Dean wrinkles his nose and attempts to bat the angel off.

“It’s been nearly a year, Dean,” Castiel laughs. Dean grins and shrugs. “And you’ve asked me that on a countless number of occasions.”

“Yeah, so humour me one more time,” Dean laughs, pulling a dark woollen hat on to stop the angel from any further mussing of his hair. Castiel snorts and looks away. “C’mon, Cas—in the name of being nostalgic—what made you want to date a human, when you used to hate us so much?”

“Well, first of all, you know that’s not true,” Castiel turns back to Dean.

“What’s not true?”

“Most of the things you just said.” Castiel laughs.

“Specify?” Dean smirks over his drink. Castiel watches as his breath fogs in the cold February air, drinks in the sight of Dean’s nose and cheeks, pink with the cold, of his fingerless gloves, of the way the human squeezes his drink so tightly the cardboard is beginning to bend under his fingers.

“I wanted to date  _ you _ ,” Castiel states, lips curving upwards. Dean breaks out into a bashful grin, eyes crinkling at their corners. “Not just any old human.”

“Oh, Cas, you flatter me.”

Castiel nudges Dean with his foot from where they sit, on the park bench.

“And I didn’t hate humans.”

“You could’ve fooled me,” Dean snorts.

“Okay, so maybe a little,” Castiel concedes, however reluctantly. “But you have to admit, it was called for.”

“Yeah, I guess it was fair enough,” Dean shrugs.

“Still is,” Castiel smirks.

“Sometimes I’m so amazed that you ever even thought about dating me,” Dean chuckles. Castiel grins and shakes his head again.

“Yeah, sometimes I am, too.”

Dean is the one to nudge Castiel in reprimand, this time. Castiel laughs and wraps his arm around Dean’s side, taking a sip of his own drink.

“How’s your chai?” Dean asks, his tone slightly teasing. Castiel squeezes Dean’s side and rolls his eyes.

“It’s great, thank you. Just like I said it’d be,” Castiel attempts to keep his face straight. “Way better than stupid, boring coffee.”

“You’re  _ so _ pretentious,” Dean snorts.

“You’re one to talk,” Castiel laughs. “You talk about cooking the most obscure shit in the world—”

“It’s classy, Cas, not pretentious,” Dean grins. “And you tried to give a recipe for vegan lasagne—”

“Which is actually really nice, you know.”

“Fuck, Cas, you’re such a hippy.”

“You’re not the first person to call me that.” Castiel chuckles. Dean smirks and leans in closer to Castiel’s body.

“I’m sure I’m not,” He chuckles.

Castiel turns and brushes his nose against the wool of Dean’s hat, wishing he could smell Dean’s hair underneath it. He presses a kiss to the rough material on top of Dean’s head. Dean hums and nestles a little closer into Castiel’s side; burying his head in the angel’s shoulder. Castiel folds his wing over Dean’s body, almost on instinct.

“So?” Dean asks, his words muffled as he speaks into Castiel’s side.

“So, what?” Castiel frowns.

“What made you want to date me?”

“Oh,” Castiel sighs, his voice rumbling with amusement. He should’ve expected this. “You’re not going to let this drop until I’ve answered, are you?”

“Nope,” Dean chuckles. Castiel snorts out another laugh and squeezes at Dean’s shoulder.

“Probably your wonderful sense of humour.”

Dean nudges Castiel.

“Sorry,” Castiel laughs. “Maybe it was your persistence,” He chuckles.

Another nudge.

“I don’t know what you want me to say!” He laughs, and Dean does too, looking up to catch Castiel’s lips against his own in a kiss.

“I know what made me want to date you,” He beams, pulling back only marginally, his breath fogging in the air just in front of them.

“What’s that, then?” Castiel chuckles.

“You’re perfect,” Dean states, simply. Castiel laughs and grazes his nose against Dean’s.

“No, you,” He replies. Dean’s cheeks, already rosy with the cold, turn a still darker shade of pink. Castiel beams at the sight. “Or perhaps,” He starts, nudging Dean’s cold nose, “It’s because in all my years, I’ve never met anyone who blushes quite as lovely as you.”

“Fuck off,” Dean rolls his eyes, ready to pull away, despite the amused smile still etched at his features; but Castiel captures the human’s lips with his own, again, and Dean makes a muffled humming noise against the angel’s mouth.

“You look cold,” Castiel notes, absently, glancing at Dean’s face, his frame, shivering slightly.

“I’m fine,” Dean shakes his head.

“We’re going back,” Castiel pulls at Dean to kiss him again, then stands, tugging Dean up off the bench. Dean grumbles in response.

“Come on, Cas—”

“You’re shivering—and if you could see how red your cheeks and nose are—”

“Maybe that’s just ‘cause I’m doing some of my lovely blushing, for you,” Dean counters, grinning. Castiel laughs and kisses the human again.

“Perhaps,” He hums. “But in any case,  _ I’m _ cold. And I’d very much like to not be.”

“Fine,” Dean concedes. “I guess I’ll go back with you, then.”

“That’s very kind,” Castiel chuckles.

Dean slips his hand into Castiel’s.

They talk wonderful nonsense on the walk back—Castiel loves this, about Dean. The way in which he can make conversation about almost nothing at all feel warm and profound.

Walking down the corridor back to Dean’s dorm room, Castiel presses the human up against a wall to kiss him, again. Dean makes a stifled moaning sound against his mouth.

“See? You’re already starting to warm up,” Castiel hums, squeezing Dean’s hand, nudging under Dean’s jaw. “I was right.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head.

“Idiot,” He breathes out. Castiel presses kisses onto the ridges of each of Dean’s glorious cheekbones.

“You hate admitting when I’m right,” He grins against Dean’s skin. His words are hummed out, hot with both feeling and temperature, against Dean’s cool flesh.

“You hate admitting when you’re wrong,” Dean laughs. “I’m just making up for it.”

Castiel tuts teasingly and takes off Dean’s hat again, to ruffle at Dean’s hair.

“Hey!” Dean exclaims.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel grins. “Messy hair is especially endearing on you.”

“Idiot,” Dean laughs again. Castiel grins and presses his body back up against Dean’s, kissing at the human’s lips again. He lets this last a few moments before going back to his teasing.

He pulls back to mess at Dean’s hair. Dean laughs and ducks away, his expression childish and happy and wonderfully unfettered.

“Stop it—” Dean laughs. He tries to bat away Castiel’s hands again, rather unconvincingly. The two of them laugh as Castiel reaches out again, an attempt to continue teasing Dean.

“Asshole,” Dean swats back, grinning widely. Castiel barks out a laugh.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Castiel asks, shaking his head, feigning melancholy.

“Absolutely!” Dean exclaims, pushing back at Castiel as he ruffles the human’s hair once more. “Stop it! Cas!”

Castiel barks out another laugh.

“God, I love you,” Dean beams, breathing out the words in a sudden, thoughtless confession.

Castiel’s hand falters.

Dean’s face falls.

“ _ —Shit— _ ” The word tumbles from Dean’s lips, much like his admission of love for Castiel. 

Shit, Castiel agrees to himself, his mind stumbling to a halt and then taking the slow, uncertain steps of an infant.

Love.  _ Love _ .

Dean said love.

“—I’m sorry—” Dean’s face is a pained red.

Dean loves Castiel.

“Fuck—I didn’t mean to—I just—I—”

Dean.

Love.

_ Dean  _ loves Castiel.

_ Castiel?! _

Imperfect, constantly unworthy Castiel, who couldn’t be more devoted to the human, who couldn’t think him any more perfect.

“—You love me?” Castiel finishes Dean’s sentence for him. Dean’s face has never looked so red. He seems devastated with his own mortification. The angel feels his lips twitch upwards. “You love me?” He repeats, stepping toward Dean again, pinning the human back up against the wall. Dean’s breath hitches. Castiel’s hand brushes, gently this time, through Dean’s hair.

“—I—” Dean stammers. He looks down. Face a furious red. “—Yeah—” He swallows. “I—I do.” 

“That’s good.” Castiel laughs gently. He nudges at Dean’s nose, causing the human to look up, again.

“Good?” Dean repeats, frowning slightly, his face a devastated pink.

“Good.” Castiel repeats. “Very good.” His lips twitch upwards into a gentle smile. He leans forward to graze his lips, the touch barely there at all, against Dean’s own; chapped by the recent cold, but soft, so very soft and full.

“Because I love you, too.” Castiel nearly whispers as he pulls back from Dean’s mouth. Dean’s breathing falters. Castiel moves his hand up to drag the pad of his thumb across Dean’s flushed cheek.

“You do?” Dean asks, his voice cracked and quiet.

“So much.” Castiel beams. “So very much.”

So much it hurts. So much his heart burns. So much and so constantly that it is like blood pour out from an open wound, or walking through mist in the hope of finding its end. It surrounds him. He loves Dean. And somehow, Dean loves him.

He presses his lips against Dean’s again. Dean moans into his mouth. His hands tremble as they move up to card through Castiel’s feathers. Castiel pulls back again. Nudges at Dean’s nose again. The human beams. Castiel ruffles Dean’s hair, once more. Dean’s smile is incomparable.

…

 

“When we last spoke, Dean, we decided it’d be a good thing for you to start keeping a thoughts journal.”

_ You decided,  _ Dean wants to correct.  _ And you only called it a ‘thoughts journal’ when you saw how much ‘feelings book’ grossed me out. _

“Yeah,” Dean nods, fiddling with his hands. The room seems far too white to be comfortable, the sun blanching bleached walls to a shade somehow even brighter, shadows of the pale curtains painting stripes up and down the room.

It’s Dean’s first talk therapy session of the semester. Cas isn’t back yet; which means that Dean hasn’t seen him since the holidays started. Weeks and  _ weeks  _ ago.

“And how’s that going?”

As always, a flicker of annoyings dances behind the eyes of Dr Hawkins, mingling strangely with the amused, encouraging smile that plays at her lips.

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs, shifting back on his seat. The leather of the couch he sits on creaks beneath him. He cannot bring himself to rest comfortably here, and so keeps both his feet planted on the ground, knees spread shoulder-width apart, hands balled tightly together, avoiding eye contact with Dr. Annie Hawkins as much as possible. “Okay?” He glances down. It took him  _ weeks  _ to get into the swing of talk therapy, and the holidays have thrown him right out of it—the only kindness of the situation seeming to be the fact that Dr Hawkins doesn’t seem to care much. But still, it is her  _ job  _ to be understanding. So.

“Elaborate?” She asks with a gentle smile.

“So,” Dean frowns down at his hands, rubbing them self-consciously together, “it feels kind of embarrassing? Like, I feel stupid when I do it, but I know it’s useful—”

“It doesn’t have to be useful,” Annie reminds. “If it doesn’t help then it doesn’t help, and that’s fine. Does it help?”

“Well, I guess…”

The thing that helps most is talking to Cas, but there are things that shame Dean too much to bring up or even think to mention; confessions that, if they reached his lips, would probably drive Dean to bury himself alive. Things he can’t share, things that haunt him to the extent that he could not bring them up with himself until very recently, and only through writing them down—which answers Annie Hawkins’ question, actually. The thought journal  _ is  _ useful.

“So maybe I never got to process stuff that happened to me, before, because I never felt comfortable with talking about it…” He swallows, “which just led to me… y’know, internalising it. Which isn’t good. So yeah?”

“You don’t need to ask  _ me  _ if it’s helping, Dean,” Dr Hawkins smiles. Dean’s lips flicker into some kind of self-aware, amused expression.

“Right…”

“So you use the book to write about what happened to you. About how you felt about it at the time? How you feel about it now?”

“Both, I guess,” Dean shrugs, looking at the collection of artsy, modern, seemingly purposeless objects Hawkins keeps on her table; the one that sits between the two of them.

“And do you feel differently towards your trauma now to how you felt towards it immediately after? And in those weeks and months following?”

Dean frowns. Now he  _ really  _ doesn’t want to look at his therapist. He swallows thickly around the lump that has formed suddenly in his throat.

“I don’t know?”

His answer comes out angrier than he had either wanted or anticipated it to.

Dr Hawkins seems unperturbed by Dean’s abruptness, as usual.

“Maybe that’s something you could track,” She says, and it’s a statement, not a question.

“You’d like me to?” Dean asks, aware that, as ever, he’s being defensive in therapy, which is just about the dumbest thing he could do, ever.

Aside from, y’know, all that stuff that happened with Alastair.

“I’d like you to,” Hawkins says, so damn reasonably that Dean wants to lash out just on principle, “but obviously that doesn't mean you  _ have  _ to. Especially if it makes you uncomfortable. But I think it might be useful.”

“It doesn’t make me  _ uncomfortable,”  _ Dean grumbles, glancing out of the window. The sky is white with cold, unfeeling clouds, and it adds to the bleached atmosphere of the room.

A robin lands on the windowsill and breaks Dean’s train of thought.

“Then what does it make you?” Hawkins asks, after a pause Dean didn’t even realise was happening until it is interrupted.

“Uh—” Dean blinks, glancing away from the window, trying to grab at the threads of his thoughts to recall what it is they were speaking of. He fumbles with them for a few moments before being able to answer. Hawkins stares at him penetratingly, legs crossed, sleeves of her shirt rolled up twice, wrists crossed over her crossed legs, as she waits for Dean’s response.

Dean swallows for what feels like the billionth time.

“Scared?” He finally finds himself admitting. Is this an admittance? Is it even the truth? Is he just answering in a way that he thinks, or rather, hopes, will appease his therapist?

“Of what?” Comes the easy, calm reply, almost quiet in the near-awkward stillness of the room.

Dean looks down, jaw clenching uncomfortably.

He sighs.

“Scared that if I track it, I’ll see that I’m not getting better.” Well, shit. That rings with more truth than he thought it would. “I’m scared of not getting better.”

“That  _ is  _ a scary thought.”

Dean glares at the woman opposite him.

“Yeah, and that’s a really fucking useful comment,” Dean finds himself biting.

Dr Hawkins doesn’t look offended. She’s grown used to Dean cursing over each of his sessions with her, it’s just that usually, these aren’t directed toward  _ her.  _ But still, she doesn’t look offended. Only as friendly as ever.

“There’s something very useful in admitting our feelings, Dean,” She reminds.

Dean wrinkles his nose at the use of the word  _ ‘feelings’. _

What the fuck?

His therapist laughs.

“And emotions aren’t something to be disgusted by. The way you in particular, understand the world and the people in it, is through those feelings.”

“What does that mean?”

“You feel things, and intensely, and you make decisions based off those feelings. That’s why it’s good to monitor them.”

“If they control me, then it’s not a good thing, right?”

“No, whether your feelings control you, or you control them, is neither good nor bad,” Hawkins shakes her head thoughtfully. “It’s just the way your brain works. But how those feelings manifest themselves, what those feelings are, what actions they cause— _ that’s  _ what matters. And as we’ve seen, you trying to repress those feelings, instead of accept them, doesn’t lead to any kind of good outcome.”

Dean ducks his head, ashamed. Suddenly he regrets, more than ever, his sharing the private and intimate parts of his soul with his counsellor; his nightmares, the flashing images, his anxiety, everything.

“I think we’ve exhausted this subject for now,” Hawkins says, thoughtfully. “I’m making you uncomfortable, as seems to be in both of our habits.”

Dean twitches a smile at this.

“Have you seen Castiel yet?” Hawkins asks. Dean shakes his head.

“Tomorrow,” He answers.

“And how was spending the holidays without him?”

Shitty.

Dean shrugs.

“I missed him.”

“Yes, of course,” Annie nods. “But I think it must have been good to get some time away from each other. You don’t want to become dependent on him.”

_ But I  _ do  _ want to be dependent on him,  _ Dean thinks.

“I guess…”

“It’s better to heal first,” Annie presses, obviously trying to persuade Dean, “and have Castiel  _ add  _ to your life, rather than fill a hole in it. You understand?”

Dean nods pensively, though he doesn’t really want to understand Hawkins’s point if he’s being honest with himself.

“I know you have trouble believing this, Dean,” Annie sighs, “but you  _ are  _ enough. In and of yourself. With or without Castiel.”

Dean smirks.

“Well, now you sound just like him.”

Dr Hawkins smiles.

“Good,” She says. “That means he’s saying the right things.”

 

…

 

“You look cold.”

The observation follows Castiel kissing Dean, and quite frustratingly pulling away from the human to make this comment. He glances distractedly down Dean’s body, which immediately, Dean tries to still from its shivering.

“I’m fine,” He objects, shaking his head, breaking away from Cas’s steely blue gaze that would most likely be able to pick up on this outright lie on Dean’s front.

“We’re going back,” Castiel pulls at Dean to kiss him again, then stands, tugging Dean up off the bench. 

God, this is just  _ typical  _ of Cas.

And Dean wants to be angry, but he can’t help being endeared, and loving the fact that Cas wants to look after him, and in fact  _ is  _ looking after him—and not for the first time, Dean thinks about how happy he is that he’s found somebody who not only  _ wants  _ to treat Dean right and take care of him, but he’s also found someone who takes  _ pleasure  _ in doing it.

Nonetheless, Dean still grumbles in response.

“Come on, Cas—”

“You’re shivering—and if you could see how red your cheeks and nose are—”

Well, Dean has the perfect response to  _ that  _ one. Flirty in the way he knows Cas likes; with enough humour to mask its truth sufficiently to make said truth as un-embarrassing as possible.

“Maybe that’s just ‘cause I’m doing some of my lovely blushing, for you,” Dean counters, flashing his boyfriend a confident smile. Castiel laughs, all warmth and affection, that for a breathless, sweetened moment makes Dean forget about the freezing cold around them all but completely, as the older boy kisses the human again.

“Perhaps,” Cas hums. Dean’s missed that noise; its quiet, gentle thoughtfulness, the intensity that thrums underneath it and sparks and crackles behind those bright azure eyes. He’s missed just about every inch of Castiel, and can’t seem to help but notice all the tiny details and facets of the angel; even more of his habits and idiosyncrasies.“But in any case,  _ I’m _ cold. And I’d very much like to not be.”

Hm. At least Cas has provided Dean with an out that saves his pride. If they go back in because  _ Cas  _ is cold, Dean can pretend like he isn’t being  _ totally  _ looked after by his boyfriend. Even if he knows that this is maybe not true.

“Fine,” Dean concedes. “I guess I’ll go back with you, then.”

He shrugs reluctantly, and is thrilled by the noise of amusement the angel makes in response.

“That’s very kind,” Castiel chuckles Dean wonders if his smile has always been that lopsided and affectionate. As it is, it steals the breath from the human’s lungs and makes him want to look away, blushing furiously. The temptation to flood with thoughts and feelings of shame and guilt and worthlessness; the idea that Dean could never be deserving of such warmth and kindness creeps through the tips of his limbs, but Dean doesn’t let it continue, stills these feelings in their tracks..

He slips his hand into Castiel’s.

“I think my therapist likes you,” He grins, partly at the amusing nature of this though and how he knows Cas will respond to it, but also very much partly because of the way Cas squeezes at his fingertips, hands nearly white-hot in contrast to the cold of the day.

“Do you?” Castiel asks, chuckling. “And what makes you say that?”

“Well,” Dean starts, smile unable to dull itself in even the slightest way, in the presence of Castiel. “Whenever I talk about you, or the things you say, she always seems to approve.”

“Should she really be making her opinion on that known?” Cas asks, raising his eyebrows, frown knitting across his face with concern. “Isn’t that—I don’t know, a little unethical? Am I really—”

“Jeez, Cas,” Dean laughs out loud, “learn how to take a compliment—”

_ “Dean,” _

Dean bursts out giggling.

“I think she thinks you’re a good thing,” He says, quite serious again, after managing to compose himself. “And I agree. I think you’re the best thing.”

_ “You’re  _ your own best thing, Dean.”

Dean snorts.

Cas sighs. Dean is  _ very  _ familiar with the tone and length of this particular sigh. It always comes in reaction to Dean making one too many jokes, or not taking what he has to say seriously enough.

“I mean it, Dean,” Castiel persists. “You really are.”

Dean flushes as his boyfriend’s words. Castiel doesn’t miss it.

“And I’d love for you to believe it one day,” Cas continues, squeezing Dean’s hand yet again. It strikes Dean how precious this moment probably is.

“Well,” Dean’s face feels white-hot in the blue-cold. “You make it easier to believe. Does that make you feel better?”

Cas snorts.

“Infinitely,” He admits, beaming, and hugging Dean into his side.

“How was your Christmas?”

Cas smiles distractedly.

“Yes,” He nods, “okay. I missed you.”

“I think you’re just trying to butter me up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Castiel replies, deadly serious. Dean barks out a laugh.

“No, you definitely are. You’re only funny when you want something, and you’re only affectionate when you want something  _ big—” _

“Now, Dean, you  _ must  _ know that’s not true.”

“So what is it you want, Cas?”

“Dean, I’m affectionate all the time! And I thought you  _ liked  _ my jokes—”

“Sex?” Dean asks with a wide, wolfish grin. “Handjob? Blowjob? Something dirty?”

_ “Dean,”  _ Castiel groans, bumping his shoulder against Dean’s. Dean barks another laugh out from his chest.

“Aw, shit, I’ve got you moaning  _ already.  _ You must’ve  _ really  _ missed me, Cas.”

Despite everything, Castiel still manages to smile and roll his eyes good-naturedly.

“You have no idea,” He replies, Dean suspects, only half-jokingly. He can’t help but beam.

When they finally make it to the corridor back to Dean’s room, Castiel surprises him completely by pressing the human up against the wall and kissing, all passion and tenderness, at Dean’s chapped lips, tongue dipping hungrily into his mouth.

Dean wants to feel annoyed, for whatever reason, because someone might see them, because Cas keeps doing these acts of passion and affection totally unexpectedly, and it’s always impossible to know when the next one will come along, and because, deep down, Den loves it more than just about anything.

So, honestly, he really  _ can’t help  _ the moan he just about stifles into Cas’s mouth.

“See? You’re already starting to warm up,” Cas hums, squeezing Dean’s hand, nudging under Dean’s jaw. Where there skin touches, sparks are send skittering through Dean’s body like hot metal. “I was right.”

Dean laughs and shakes his head. He hates it when Cas is right.

“Idiot,” He breathes out. Castiel presses the most beautiful, hypnotising of kisses onto the ridges of each of Dean’s cheekbones, so that Dean is nearly beside himself by the time Castiel’s response comes from the angel’s lips.

“You hate admitting when I’m right,” He grins against Dean’s skin. Dean can feel it, and he somehow manages to shiver at the heat of Cas’s breath against his cold skin.

And yeah, again, Cas is totally right, and Dean both hates and loves it.

“You hate admitting when you’re wrong,” He counters, laughing. “I’m just making up for it.”

Castiel tuts teasingly and takes off Dean’s hat again, to ruffle at Dean’s hair, just to be a dick. He’s not very good at fucking around, and Dean guesses that Cas has never played any  _ actual,  _ successful pranks in his life; but as it is, this ruffling of Dean’s hair and teasing of the human just about has Dean falling in love with the awkward, intelligent, thoughtful, insightful, authoritative angel all over again.

“Hey!” He exclaims, ready to roll his eyes and just about resisting the urge to tackle Cas to the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel grins, unusually cocky. What’s gotten into him? “Messy hair is especially endearing on you.”

The beautiful blue eyes dance with amusement and that same, furious intelligence, and probably around a thousand thoughts at once. What did Dean do to deserve Cas? And what could he have possibly done to make Cas think of Dean as the most worthy person in the universe?

Dean practically flushes at this though, and refocuses himself on Cas’s pale pink lips stretched upwards into a rare, impish smile on the angel’s face.

“Idiot,” Dean laughs again. Castiel grins and presses his body back up against Dean’s, kissing at the human’s lips again. It’s perfect, fuck, Dean is probably getting hard with the contrast of freezing-cold-to-hot in moments, and the warmth of Castiel’s most welcome body flush against his, and his chest at Dean’s chest, and his crotch flush against Dean’s, and his possessive, devouring, tender lips.

Dean is glad for the few moments this lasts before the angel returns to his teasing, even if he  _ does  _ find it pretty funny that Cas thinks he’s so hilarious, when he’s at best being a minor inconvenience. 

Dean honestly believes he could spend years with this guy. Just like this. Being stupid and goofing around, and Castiel not quite  _ getting  _ social cues and norms but still trying his best anyway and being totally adorable and oblivious when he fucks them up, and somehow both the best and worst ever at reading people’s thoughts and feelings.

Dean wouldn’t want to spend his life with anyone else.

Cas pulls back to mess at Dean’s hair again. Dean laughs and ducks away, feeling more childish and happy and free than he has in an awfully long time, probably since he was seventeen, before all the shit with Alastair—and it’s weird, but thinking about Al now, with Cas present and teasing and adoring Dean, isn’t sending Dean into a flurry of panic. It’s just a thought. Just a thought, and Dean is distracted, and in love, he thinks, thinks it like a sigh of air out from his lungs, like a gust of wind, warm on his face, so in love with Castiel. 

“Stop it—” He laughs. He tries to bat away Castiel’s hands again, only half-heartedly, and probably not even that—and in any case, it’s to absolutely no avail, anyway . The two of them laugh as Castiel reaches out again in an attempt to continue teasing Dean.

“Asshole,” Dean swats back, grinning widely. Castiel barks out a laugh.

“Is that really what you think of me?” Castiel asks, shaking his head, feigning melancholy.

No. Of course not.

Well, maybe a little bit. But the  _ best  _ kind of ass.

“Absolutely!” Dean exclaims, pushing back at Castiel as he ruffles the human’s hair once more. “Stop it! Cas!”

Yeah, the very best. 

Castiel barks out another laugh.

The very best kind of person, the very best  _ person, ever,  _ the  _ only  _ person Dean can envision himself with, in years to come, the only one Dean can imagine spending years of his life with, the  _ rest  _ of his life with, the only person in all this wide world Dean would think to marry, settle down with, start a family with.

Perfect, imperfect, stupid, clever Cas who is everything Dean thinks he will ever need, who Dean cannot get out from under his skin and would never want to, who Dean couldn’t be more glad to have in his life, to have met, all those months ago.

“God, I love you,” Dean beams, breathing out the words in a sudden, thoughtless confession.

Castiel’s hand falters.

Dean’s face falls.

Oh, God.

“ _ —Shit— _ ” The word tumbles from Dean’s lips, much like his admission of love for Castiel. 

Shit.

_ Shit. _

And that’s just the word for it.  _ Shit. _

What has he done? What the  _ fuck  _ is wrong with Dean?

His heart falls into his stomach and breaks into a thousand tiny pieces, then sets itself on fire.

Oh, God.

And Cas just stares, stares at Dean as the human’s mind sets on fire, too, all chaos and mortification and despair—because what  _ the fuck  _ is wrong with Dean? It’s one thing for Cas to like him, enjoy his company, but  _ stupid  _ to hope the angel could ever feel the same way towards Dean, so why would Dean ever confess his feelings?! What has he done?! His mind has turned into a hurricane, furious with itself, ripping Dean’s flesh to shreds.

“—I’m sorry—” 

Because, really, what else is there to say? Dean has fucked up, big time, ruined the best thing he had going for him, the best thing life had ever tossed in his direction. He’s sorry that he was stupid enough to hope that this was a thing that could be serious, could last, sorry for being so foolish as to think that Cas could  _ ever  _ love him, too.

“Fuck—I didn’t mean to—I just—I—” He cuts himself off, unable to finish, hardly able to think outside of the few, bleak thoughts that run through his head like a torrent of constant rain on gray pavement.

Dean’s never hated himself like he hates himself now. This one’s new, burning, relentless, self-pitying, Dean is devoured by it and knows that it marks the end of the happiest time of his life; his time with Castiel.

“—You love me?” Castiel finishes Dean’s sentence for him. Dean glances up at Castiel, at the confused, empty eyes, and hates himself still more. Of course Cas wouldn’t feel the same way, and whatever spark of hope that was left inside of his chest dies completely.

But then something happens.

Cas’s mouth flutters upwards in an expression that seems both nervous and  _ happy. _

“You love me?” He repeats, stepping toward Dean again, pinning the human back up against the wall. Dean’s breath hitches. What—what’s happening? Dean’s mind races, and stills, with the same disbelief it did the night Cas first kissed Dean, nearly a year ago.

He can’t breathe, can’t breathe at all, is absolutely terrified, and Castiel’s hand brushes, gently this time, through his hair.

It stills his thoughts all but completely.

Unfortunately, Dean still can’t seem to speak.

“—I—” Dean stammers. He looks down. Face hotter than he can remember it being in a long time. “—Yeah—” He swallows. “I—I do.” 

Mortified, Dean all but squirms, back pinned against the wall.

“That’s good.” Castiel laughs gently. He nudges at Dean’s nose, causing the human to look up, again.

Wait, what?

Good?

“Good?” Dean repeats, frowning slightly, his face a devastated pink.

He still can’t breathe. Still, still has his heart hammering at the cage of his chest and can’t stop thinking about how Cas’s eyes look like home.

“Good.” Castiel repeats. “Very good.” His lips twitch upwards into a gentle smile. He leans forward to graze his lips, the touch barely there at all, against Dean’s own.

What’s happening? Why is it good?

“Because I love you, too.” Castiel nearly whispers as he pulls back from Dean’s mouth. Dean’s breathing falters, yet again, and he feels dizzy, as though he’s been spun round at the speed of light for hours and then let go of, more lightheaded than he has in his entire existence. Castiel moves his hand up to drag the pad of his thumb across Dean’s flushed cheek.

Dean nearly chokes.

Love.

Is that what Cas said?

Love. Dean. Love  _ Dean? _

“You do?” Dean asks, his voice cracked and quiet, he can hardly bring it above a whisper.

“So much.” Castiel beams. “So very much.”

Dean doesn’t feel worthy.

But the way Cas looks at him, somehow, Dean knows he is.

Cas loves Dean.

It still isn’t sinking in. He feels so lucky, luckier than anyone should have the right to feel. Castiel  _ loves  _ Dean.

He presses his lips against Dean’s again. Dean moans into his mouth. His hands tremble as they move up to card through Castiel’s feathers. Castiel pulls back again. Nudges at Dean’s nose again. The human beams. He can’t help himself. After so many months, thinking that Cas didn’t love him,  _ couldn’t  _ love him… And Cas  _ does, can,  _ just as Dean loves him.

Castiel ruffles Dean’s hair, once more. Dean’s smile is incomparable.

He feels like flying, feels like he  _ can  _ fly.

The moment flares out with it, as Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s, squeezes. Love. It fills with it, trembles between them, blossoms and glitters and trembles again. Love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - again, sorry for the delay! I hope you enjoyed. Please comment.
> 
> The Devil's Epitaph will hopefully be updated by tomorrow!


	28. Current Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 28! I hope you enjoy. A little bit of everything featured in this chapter! (fluff, smut, angst, making up, all of it.)
> 
>  
> 
> I think I'm going to end this part of the series with Castiel's graduation - so very soon! I really hope you've enjoyed everything so far. There will, of course, be more in the 'verse, following this work. :)

Chapter 28

  
  


Castiel hums the words across Dean’s skin that night, not even  _ close  _ to fucking, yet. Just kissing and adoring every inch of Dean’s flesh, Dean squirming and whimpering and biting his lip beneath the angel, lights dancing behind his eyes.

Cas does this sometimes. Makes Dean so damn hot and desperate for it, by being so constantly tender and adoring, that Dean feels as though he could crawl out of his own skin.

Only tonight, along with kisses littered across Dean’s body, there are confessions, too.

“I love your freckles,” Is one, accompanied by a scatter of kisses across Dean’s right shoulder, “I love your nose,” Paired with Castiel bumping his nose against Dean’s. “I love your ears,” Another, as Castiel licks and nips at the whorl of Dean’s left ear, the human shivering breathlessly beneath him. “I love your cheekbones,” Accompanied by the scrape of teeth against Dean’s face, “your eyes,” Castiel beams down at him, pressing his forehead against Dean’s and gazing intently into Dean’s soul. Dean swallows, letting a small, desperate noise make it past his lips.

Castiel chuckles warmly, blue eyes turning fiery.

“I love the noises you make,” Castiel continues to titter, grazing his hands up the length of Dean’s torso. The muscles in Dean’s tummy twinge, and all of him feels too tight. “I love how you can give up control, all for me,”—Dean moans as Castiel speaks, eyes fluttering closed. “I love your eyelashes, I love your smile,” The angel kisses delicately up and down Dean’s face before settling on his lips. “I love your collarbones,” He nips at these, and Dean lets out a startled gasp of sudden pain-laced pleasure, revelling at the delicious sensation of Castiel soothing the bite with his tongue.

“Cas,” He rasps, grinding his hips up into nothing out of want. “Not that I’m not enjoying this, but—Ezekiel is gonna be back, soon, and he’ll be pissed if—”

Castiel silences Dean’s lips with a kiss.

“We have time,” The angel murmurs above Dean. “Trust me.”

And then he moves down, to kiss and nip at Dean’s stomach—Dean spreads his legs wide on instinct—only half-aware of how needy and wanton and dirty-hot he must look right now. He hardly cares: cares even less when Cas begins sucking marks onto the inside of his thighs, mumbling things like  _ “mine,”  _ and  _ “precious, precious Dean,”  _ and  _ “my beautiful beloved”  _ into his adored, bruised flesh _. _

Dean’s dick is beading at the head, a steady stream of precome; but Cas completely neglects it. He does this, too, sometimes: makes Dean wait for release until the human’s skin is crawling out of desperation and tears are leaking from his eyes; refuses to acknowledge Dean’s dick and revels in his power over the human as he makes Dean come untouched. And all Dean can do is lie back and  _ feel  _ and fall in desperate love with Castiel, even more so than he already is.

Like now.

And probably, since today was the first day that they even  _ said  _ the whole ‘I love you’ thing, Cas wants to draw this out even  _ more.  _ Make it special. Which is saying something, since Cas can make sex last hours, anyway.

Or, maybe Cas is doing this because he knows Dean is embarrassed by being the one to say it first, wants to assure Dean that he  _ really, really  _ means it. Right now, Dean is having  _ no  _ trouble doubting the sincerity of Cas’s affection.

“I love it when you’re confident,” Castiel looks up from Dean’s flesh to stare intently into Dean’s eyes, “I love it when you’re all shy and blushing, I love how I can see your freckles even better when you’re flushed. I love your lips. I love your lips when they’re wrapped around my dick,” Something darkly passionate and gorgeously possessive stirs in Castiel’s eyes as he says this, and Dean groans at the sight, arching his back in submission.

“Cas,  _ please—” _

“I love it when you’re hot and begging for it, when you’re moaning and tossing on my bed because of how damn good and whole and desperate you feel—”

“ _ Please!”  _ Dean arcs his back again, groaning, nearly crying. Castiel’s pupils blow his eyes nearly black with lust.

“Love it when you beg,” He breathes out hoarsely, looking like he could consume Dean all in a single breath—Dean’s body trembles a little more at the thought, and he hardly notices Cas reach behind him to run his fingers across his oil glands, just below the angel’s wings, and pick up as much oil as possible. But he notices when Castiel presses a finger, unannounced, into Dean’s aching body.

He gasps at the sudden, perfect breach of his person.

And he knows people say it kills the mood, but honestly? Being able to tell Cas he loves him, as Cas finger-fucks Dean with dirty hot deliberacy is just about the best thing the human can think of. His chest feels like it’s being emptied as he does so; like he’s breathing out a tornado with each confession of total devotion.

And by the time he and Cas finally get to fucking, when Castiel finally presses inside of his thrumming body, Dean can’t even  _ think  _ in sentences, let alone speak them. All that comes out are gasps and moans and grunts of  _ ‘Uh, uh, uh’  _ in time with the snap of Cas’s hips. He’s crying and moaning again, Cas kissing at his tears and making him feel so damn precious Dean honestly believes the world is made of stardust.

And Cas is still whispering how he loves Dean, murmuring the words into Dean’s ears until they’re all Dean knows; those words, Cas’s eyes, and the base, burning pleasure of Cas fucking him deeper than he’s ever been fucked before. Dean can’t tell if it’s rough or tender—at some points it sure does feel like both, Cas nipping and sucking at his skin, then staring into Dean’s eyes and kissing at Dean’s nose and lips with all the love and devotion in the world.

So when Dean comes, all that escapes his mouth is a loud cry ripping from his chest and a strangled moan of Cas’s name, because right now, that’s all he knows. Cas, and the fire he has set roaring in Dean’s chest.

And he’s floating down from this blissful cloud of thrumming, hazy pleasure, only mildly aware of Cas grunting out his orgasm with a less deliberate pistoning of his hips than earlier into Dean’s body, and the angel pressing a plug into Dean’s ass, and the scattering of reverent kisses across Dean’s chest, and the murmur of,

_ “I mean it, Dean. I love you.” _

Dean’s gasping has turned into panting, which in turn drifts into smooth, sated, relaxed breaths that wash in and out of Dean like water, like waves on the beach at night, lapping at Dean’s chest.

Or maybe that’s just Cas cleaning the come off Dean’s torso with a warm, wet towel? Where the hell did he get that from? Dean beams and reaches a shaky hand up to card his fingers affectionately through Cas’s hair. Either way. Dean couldn’t be feeling any happier, right now,  _ especially  _ at the look Cas gives him in response to his touch.

_ “You’re looking all fucked out,”  _ The angel observes, but for the life of him, Dean can’t decipher Cas’s words: they come out all muffled and hazy in his ears and he blinks sleepily, confused.

“Huh?”

“You’re drunk on sex, Dean,” Castiel chuckles. This time, Dean  _ kind of  _ understands what Cas is saying, and grins lopsidedly.

“I look good?” He asks. Castiel beams, chuckling again, and bends down to nose at Dean’s nose.

“Always,” He hums. “But now especially.” He kisses tenderly at Dean’s lips for a few moments, Dean unable to kiss back, only grin lazily at the attention. “God, I wish you could see yourself,” He laughs roughly, low and quiet. “Looking so good. So pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Dean asks, or rather, rasps out, beaming in delirious sleepiness as Castiel wraps him in a blanket and kisses his forehead.

“I think you’re beautiful.”

The little energy Dean has left goes into him flushing.

Vaguely, he can hear Cas chuckling affectionately above him and lying down by Dean’s side, pulling his comforter over both of them. Dean’s sleep is deep and heavy, and surrounded by the distant, comforting sensation of being cradled by someone who loves him. Very much.

 

…

 

“So I know Valentine’s Day is kinda lame, but—”

Castiel snorts involuntarily at Dean’s words, not least because for the past hour or so, it’s been blatantly obvious that Dean has been building up, steeling himself, to say something he finds to be very awkward.

They sit in a quiet corner of the library, opposite one another, Castiel finishing off an essay and Dean struggling with a math assignment. It’s obvious that he’s battling with it: he’ll wrinkle his nose and knot his forehead up at unpredictable intervals, occasionally letting out a sigh or scratching the back of his neck with his pen. It’s just about the cutest thing that Castiel can think of, and it’s taking all the self-control Castiel has not to give into the sizzling urge to take Dean’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and kiss Dean’s lips raw at the human’s work-face.

Castiel watches as Dean licks his lips cautiously, cutting his sentence short at the angel’s obvious amusement.

“What makes you think it’s lame, Dean?”

Dean flushes. 

“I dunno. It all seems kinda arbitrary, y’know? And I thought you would think so, too?” He raises his eyebrows at Castiel, who shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, anyway,” Dean continues, “I thought…. And I wouldn’t normally, y’know? Just with you, I—I thought we could do something? Would you like that? And it could be kinda ironic, like a, I don’t know, us laughing at the morons who actually  _ buy into—” _

Finally, Castiel gives into the burning need to meet his mouth with Dean’s, and leans close to stop the human’s lips with a kiss.

“That sounds great, Dean.” He pulls back and gazes with all the warmth of mid-summer at his boyfriend. “What did you have in mind?”

“I, uh,” Dean fumbles, clearly caught off guard, as always, by Castiel’s fervent displays of affection. “Dinner?” He suggests. “At some place fancy, maybe? Ellen gave me some money and said that I could— _ we could _ —do something nice. How’s that sound to you?”

Castiel nods.

“Yes, I like the sound of that,” He confirms, unable to extinguish the bright amber flame in his chest that Dean’s uncomfortableness with anything remotely serious has ignited, inexplicably.

“And I get that it’s a little stupid—”

“It’s not stupid, Dean,” Castiel smiles, taking Dean’s hand in his own. “Why would it be stupid?”

“I don’t know,” Dean’s forehead knits into a frown once more. He coughs awkwardly into a balled fist. “I guess I just never took you to be the type to care about Valentine’s?”

“Well,” Castiel snorts. “It  _ is  _ kind of a stupid holiday. And I’d hope that you know how much I adore you anyway.”

Dean flushes a gorgeous rose at Castiel’s words before managing to smirk out one of his coolest, most lopsided smiles, probably in an attempt to convince Castiel that the angel’s affection doesn’t have  _ such  _ a massive effect on him. Obviously, it’s not nearly enough to persuade Castiel that this is the case.

“But any excuse to spend time with you is an excuse enough for me,” Castiel finishes, ardently. “So I’d love to do whatever it is you have planned.”

“Cool,” Dean beams, straightening up. “Great.”

“What  _ was  _ it that you had planned?”

“Well, this fancy restaurant,” Dean explains. “And then, like, a movie night? Or we could go to some trendy bar, I don’t know—” He squirms a little. “I’m bad at this kind of thing. I don’t know if you’d noticed. But I want to do it, with you.”

Castiel swallows down his mystifying joy at Dean’s words.

“I don’t know if  _ you’d  _ noticed, Dean, but I’m not too gifted at this kind of thing, either. So we can suck at Valentine’s Day, together. But I like the thought that sucking at it is something that I can do with you.”

Dean beams, even as his cheeks flame crimson, turning his golden-brown freckles even darker. Castiel can nearly smell spring on the air at the human’s expression.

“You’re such a sap, Cas,” Dean grins, rolling his eyes even as his cheeks remain a staunch coral in colour. “It’s a wonder I don’t break up with you.”

Castiel smirks.

“I’m glad you haven’t,” He hums, squeezing at Dean’s hand. Dean glances down at it. He smiles distractedly. Castiel’s soul lets out a long, sweet sigh that he doesn’t ever want to end.

 

…

 

“You look dumb, dressed up smart,” Dean grins, straightening out Cas’s tie even as he mocks the angel with bright, glittering eyes.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Ezekiel hums from where he lies, cross-legged on his bed with his laptop perched in front of him, face glowing an iridescent white-blue from its backlight.

“And you look dumb, period,” Castiel rolls his eyes. Ezekiel snorts out a laugh. “ _ Both  _ of you.”

“Hey!”

“‘Zeke, do you have to be here?” Dean frowns.

“Why?” Ezekiel stares up at Dean, and Castiel honestly can’t tell if his roommate is affronted, or just pretending to be, in order to mess with the human. “This is  _ my  _ room too, y’know. I give you guys  _ so much time  _ to be alone together, and on the one night when I hang around—”

“Didn’t you want to do something nice with Bela?”

“First of all,  _ no,”  _ Ezekiel shakes his head, seeming somehow offended by Castiel’s suggestion, “second of all—”

“Why not?” Dean frowns. “Did you break up with her?”

“No—but it’s not as though there was anything to  _ break,  _ anyway.”

“I thought you liked her?”

“I never said I  _ didn’t,”  _ Ezekiel glares.

“Then why—”

“Second of all,” Ezekiel continues over Dean, pulling an exasperated expression, “Bela and I aren’t  _ dating.  _ We’re  _ fucking.  _ Big difference.”

“Oh, gross,” Dean wrinkles his nose. “That’s like, the  _ last _ thing I wanted to hear—”

“No, the last thing you want to hear is me harping on and on about how into some girl I am, and how I’m going to take her out on Valentine’s Day and we’re just gonna have the most  _ adorable  _ evening and sit opposite each other with candles burning and—”

“Okay, Ezekiel, we get it—”

“So you’re welcome, by the way, for me sparing you from that,” Ezekiel continues, matter-of-factly. “And I haven’t even finished my points. Third of all, have you  _ met  _ Bela? You think she’d be into Valentine’s Day crap? At all?”

“What’s got you in such a shitty mood, ‘Zeke?” Dean smirks, despite keeping his tone tentative.

Ezekiel rolls onto his back and makes a noise of annoyance and exhaustion.

“Honestly?”

“Why do you think I’m asking?”

“Mom thinks it’s stupid for me to do a Master’s. Says it won’t take me anywhere.”

“And that’s why you’re pissed off at us?”

“No, I’m just jealous and lonely in the face of your beautiful relationship,” Ezekiel replies sarcastically. A chuckle cracks out of Castiel’s throat. “Of  _ course  _ that’s why I’m pissed.” His whole exterior softens a moment, and he rolls his eyes affectionately at the pair. “But I’m over it. Who needs a future, anyway? Now go on, get out of here. Have a cute night, losers.”

“Thanks buddy,” Dean smiles, ruffling at Ezekiel's hair as he makes his way to the door. “But I’m  _ always  _ cute.”

“See you, Ezekiel,” Castiel smiles at his roommate as he makes his way to leave after Dean. “Have a good night.”

“Thanks, man,” Ezekiel replies distantly, already staring back at the screen of his laptop, seemingly lost in thought once more. Castiel smirks and closes the door behind him.

And, turning to Dean on the empty hallway, Castiel can’t help but beam.

“What’re you grinning at?” Dean asks with a leer. Castiel chuckles.

“You,” He replies honestly, as Dean heads out of the building and onto the lawns and concrete outside. “You look nice, dressed up smart.”

Dean blows a raspberry, like a child would. His cheeks are the colour of cherries.

“I bet you’re only saying that ‘cause you want to get laid tonight.”

“Well, always,” Castiel replies honestly—which earns him a snort of guileless laughter from his boyfriend. “But I mean it,” Castiel slips his hand into Dean’s as the two amble through the evening air. The sky is a soft shade of orange that glides into pinks and violets, and it seems almost dusty in texture from the many, wispy layers of clouds that cover its surface, and the sun setting across it.

And he’s being truthful: Dean, in his white-gray linen shirt and navy tie, spiky hair combed as neatly as possible, is indulging Castiel in a fantasy he didn’t even know he  _ had. _

“You like watching me blush, don’t you, Cas?”

“I mean, wasn’t it obvious?” Castiel frowns at his boyfriend, who chuckles and shakes his head fondly.

The walk to the restaurant Dean has chosen is a fairly long one—not helped of course by the fact that Castiel feels  _ no  _ desire to shorten his time with Dean by walking quickly, so, despite leaving extra early, the pair arrive outside the fancy-looking place with only seven minutes to spare.

“How do you do this?” Dean frowns at the door.

“What do you mean?”

“Like, do I say we’ve made a reservation?”

“I guess?” Castiel frowns, brow knotting together. “I don’t make a habit of eating at places where you can  _ reserve  _ seats—”

“God, Cas, you’re no use at all,” Dean rolls his eyes. “Why did I even bring you?”

“Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m your boyfriend and you love me?” Castiel suggests. “And because, for some reason, you actually enjoy my company and sense of humour?”

Deans smirks.

“Yeah, one of those two, I guess. Or maybe it’s your dorky dress sense, or your gorgeous sex hair.”

“I’ll go with sex hair,” Castiel chuckles as Dean pushes the door open.

“Good choice,” Dean nods seriously back at the angel. “I would’ve, too, if I were you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Inside, the place is all low, red lighting and dark furniture; black modern chairs made out of some shiny kind of wood and lamps that dip down to hang just above each table. If Castiel didn’t feel so out of his depth, he’d be telling Dean how beautiful this place is and how glad he is to be here with the human. As it is, he only feels nervous

“Hey—hello—” Dean shifts awkwardly, rubbing his arm self-consciously as he speaks to a human in a dark suit by the door. “We made a, um, reservation for dinner?”

The human hardly glances at Dean, only stares over the young man’s shoulder at Castiel, lips pursed, eyes veiled and impersonal.

“One moment, please,” He says, and steps away, walking over to another human in a darker, slightly fancier suit further down the restaurant. Castiel glances over to them, frowning, as they hold murmured conversation. 

His wings bristle. Dean looks confused. Castiel’s wings bristle even more when the waiter and, he assumes, the manager, glance over to him and Dean. The waiter points to the pair and murmurs something else. The manager nods, frowning unfavourably.

“What the hell?” Dean mutters, frowning in confusion. “What’re they doing? Cas, do you know what’s goin’ on?”

Castiel’s skin burns.

God, he’s been so stupid.

Of course he knows what they’re doing.

His ears start getting hot.

He’d been so caught up, so in love with Dean and happy in his relationship, that he forgot what humans are  _ really  _ like.

He glances around at the people filling the restaurant.

In the low candlelight, all he can make out are human faces. Not a wing, not a feather in sight. All of them have the mean, pointed faces of the people Castiel, up until about a year ago, had associated with hatred.

And then he’d almost forgotten about it. Almost.

But he remembers it now.

His skin starts to itch, he shifts his weight from one foot to the other and flattens his wings down, flushing, suddenly feeling stupid and ridiculous in his suit and tie, wishing he were anywhere else in the world but here. They’re looking—not just the waiter and manager now, but diners at the restaurant; they flicker their gaze up to Dean and Castiel, still stood awkwardly at the heavy, dark door all the other guests had long since entered through.

“Cas, buddy?” Dean frowns over to his boyfriend, still, apparently, totally oblivious to what’s going on.  _ Oh, Dean.  _ Castiel is caught between feeling anger and a patronising exasperation toward the human—why didn’t Dean see this coming? Why didn’t he look the place up before reserving a table here? “Are you okay?”

Castiel bristles still more, ducking his head, face searing with mortification and resentment and  _ fury  _ at what he knows is about to happen. He realises that his hands have started trembling as the manager and waiter make their ways back over to Dean and Castiel.

“Dean, we should go,” He murmurs back to his boyfriend. Whispers go up around the restaurant, along with tentative, distrusting glances in the direction of Dean and Castiel, like fireworks going off at night.

“What?” Dean frowns.

“ _ We should go,”  _ Castiel hisses, hands shaking with a little more franticness now.

“Why?” Dean asks, confused, the waiter and manager only a few feet away, now. “We made a reservation—”

“No,” Castiel whispers, hopelessly,  “ _ you _ made a reservation.”

Dean, a human.

Castiel, an angel.

Somehow their differences have never seemed so apparent until now.

“Good evening, sirs,” The manager purses his lips in a slightly less distinct way to the waiter who first greeted them—or, rather, _refused_ to greet them. But Castiel can still make it out: this is the face of disapproval that humans wear whenever confronted with one of Castiel’s kind in a place where angel’s are unwelcome—everything from the clenching and unclenching fists, the slow, uneven breathing, the gaze flicking to and from Castiel’s person, the twitch of neck and jaw muscles. “I’m very sorry for the delay, but I’m afraid we’re full tonight—”

“Full?” Dean repeats, frowning. His shoulders are far apart and he stands in a way so starkly different from Castiel’s slumping, resigned demeanor that Castiel wants to scream at his boyfriend that it’s useless, that there’s no point fighting, that they should just  _ go  _ and forget about it. The manager blinks longsufferingly at Dean’s interruption, but the human hardly seems to notice. Castiel shrivels up a little more inside, already self-conscious, absolutely ready to die.

“Yes, sir—”

“But we made a  _ reservation—” _

“And it seems we’ve double booked, for which we apologise—”

“Double booked?” Dean glares. “How did that happen?”

“A logistical error, I’m sure—”

“But there are free tables right  _ there,”  _ Dean points, still glowering. “ _ And  _ there.” He points somewhere else. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but as you can imagine, tonight  _ is  _ a busy night—”

“Well, obviously,” Dean rolls his eyes, “why do you think I bothered  _ booking  _ a table?”

“Dean,” Castiel tugs on Dean’s sleeve, desperate to get out of here.

“No, Cas, this is bullshit!” Dean frowns. “Why can’t you give us a table?”

“Sir, the establishment reserves the right to refuse service to anyone they discern as undesirable—”

_ “Undesirable?”  _ Dean repeats. “Who’s undesirable?”

“Dean,” Castiel begs, tugging at Dean’s sleeve a little harder, but the human wrenches it from his boyfriend’s grip, still scowling at the waitstaff—before his eyes widen and he glances back at Castiel, shocked.

Castiel is reminded of the first time he met the human by the look of awe, fear and confusion swarming its way across Dean’s face.

But then the human surprises Castiel. He turns back to the manager and waiter, frowning heavily, brow set in an unforgiving, unwavering downward curve.

“You can’t do this,” He shakes his head. “It’s illegal.”

The manager blinks. The waiter shuffles uncomfortably, avoiding both Dean and Castiel’s gazes.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean—”

“I’m sure you  _ do,”  _ Dean replies, quickly. “And unless you want us to complain—or report you—”

“There’s no need for—”

“Dean,” Castiel pleas. “It’s not worth it.”

“Cas, it  _ is,”  _ Dean shakes his head, turning back to the angel with his forehead knitted up not with anger, now, but passion and worry. “Don’t you see—”

“Of  _ course  _ I see, Dean,” Castiel has to fight to keep his voice even and quiet. Has Dean honestly forgotten who it is he’s dating? “But  _ please,  _ can we go?”

His petitions go unnoticed.

“Why won’t you let us eat here?” Dean asks the manager, ignoring Castiel.

“Because,” The manager starts again, drawing in a deep inward breath, “any establishment has the right—”

“ _ Bullshit,”  _ Dean spits. The waiter flinches.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to watch your language—”

“Dean, you’re making a scene,” Castiel whines softly.

“—And further, ask you to leave the premises—” the manager continues.

“Because my boyfriend is an angel?” Dean asks—and this time, customers’ heads  _ definitely  _ turn.

“Sir, you’re disturbing our guests—”

“We  _ are  _ your guests, in case you’d forgotten,” Dean glowers. “I made a reservation! And if I’m disturbing anyone else, then it’s your fault—”

“This has nothing to do with racial discrimination,” The manager’s jaw clenches. “So please don’t steer the conversation in that direction—”

“So if I’d come here on my own, would you have let me in?” Dean asks. The manager’s face heats. “Or if I’d come in here with my family, who’re all human—would you have refused me service, then?” 

“That’s different—”

Dean honestly looks as though he could punch the guy.

“But you’re not gonna let us in, now.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement. The waiter starts gnawing at his own lip, watching the proceedings. The manager shuffles his feet, keeping his hands clasped together.

“I believe you already know the answer to that.”

“And why won’t you serve us?”

“I don’t need to answer that.”

“Yes you do!”

“Our customers are of a certain— _ caliber,  _ and—” 

Castiel turns and shoves the door back open, stepping out into the cold winds which had started up during their time inside, taking a gasp of freezing air into his trembling lungs. His whole body shakes. His eyes burn and prickle, despite the cold. His face feels as though it’s about to catch on fire. He wrenches the tie off from around his neck, feeling stupid and, for whatever reason, dirty. Horribly dirty, and more worthless than he has in his whole life.

Usually he’s defiant in the face of discrimination. Why is it that he feels like mud, now?

“Cas!” Dean exclaims, bursting out of the door after him. Castiel paces down the sidewalk, tears freezing on his face as soon as they fall. He desperately wipes them away as Dean attempts to catch up with him, feeling nothing but bitterness and resentment towards the human.

“Cas, wait up—”

Castiel’s jaw tightens and he swallows around a lump in his throat, kicking at the pavement.

“Cas, I’m sorry, those guys were assholes—but we can report them, it’s fine—”

_ “Fine?”  _ Castiel repeats, turning to glare filthily at Dean, who flinches back, looking suddenly hurt. It’s nothing on how Castiel feels. “Why is it  _ fine,  _ Dean? How exactly could it possibly be  _ fine?  _ And what the hell is wrong with you?”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with me?” Dean glares back at the angel, whose lip curls.

“I mean, why the fuck didn’t you look that place up before? Why the fuck did you carry on in there after I’d made it  _ clear  _ that I wanted to go? Why did you have to cause a scene?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Cas,” Dean scowls caustically, “I didn’t realise restaurants advertised their racism online! What the fuck was I meant to do, call in and ask,  _ ‘oh, by the way, will my boyfriend be allowed in? He’s an angel, but, y’know, a good enough guy’—” _

“God! Dean!” Castiel snarls, shouting the words over the wind, which has caught itself up, rather suddenly, in a flurry of freezing, arctic cold.

“And while we’re on shit I did wrong, apparently, I’m  _ so sorry  _ that I stuck up for you! Imagine that, sticking up for my  _ boyfriend!  _ What the hell was I supposed to do, just stand there and let them treat you like that?”

“Oh,  _ shit,  _ I forgot, Dean! “Castiel exclaims, sarcastically. “If you  _ talk  _ to racists  _ reasonably,  _ suddenly all their bigotry just goes away! Just like that! God, I really am a goof—good thing I have you around to show me what to do when someone’s being a chauvinist! Because you’re so experienced and learned, and you obviously know  _ so much more  _ about racism than I do!”

“You  _ asshole,  _ Cas!” Dean shouts over the wind. “I was trying to do what was  _ right  _ by you!”

“Well, I’ve got to say, Dean, you did an amazing job!”

“Stop being so sarcastic!” Dean blinks hard, and Castiel realises with a start the the human is fighting back tears. But what right does  _ he  _ have to be crying? He doesn’t know what Castiel just went through! “I’m sorry, Cas! I didn’t know they’d be like that—I thought we were just gonna have a nice night—”

“Yeah, it was really lovely, Dean,” Castiel rolls his eyes. “Most romantic Valentine’s Day, ever. Next time, how about you remember this little thing that I’ve had to face my whole life, called  _ institutional racism?” _

Dean kicks at the pavement, glaring at Castiel. Castiel rolls his eyes and starts walking.

“Where’re you going?” Dean shouts after him.

“Home, Dean,” Castiel shouts back. “And you can go back to your own dorm, by the way.”

Dean’s face falls.

“I should’ve know better than to date a human,” Castiel snarls, casting as filthy look as he can in Dean’s direction before readying himself to turn away again.

But Dean doesn’t even respond.

His expression seems to cave in on itself and the human just slumps into sitting on the curb.

The cold mid-February wind dies down. No longer does it whip around them, rough on Castiel’s skin, mussing up his hair. The air turns abruptly still.

Castiel feels suddenly ashamed.

“I guess so,” Dean stares at the tarmac of the ground, pawing at it softly. His expression speaks nothing but hopelessness.

Castiel takes a step closer towards him.

“I—”

But he finds that he can’t speak.

“No, it’s fair enough,” Dean shakes his head, eyes welling up with tears that leak softly onto the human’s freckled cheeks. “I don’t know what it’s like—and I shouldn’t have stayed there and picked a fight—it was upsetting for you, and I was being stupid… I was just angry…”

Castiel can’t make so much as a sound. All his words are failing him and chipping out of his throat in silence.

“But I get it,” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “And I guess this is it?”

Finally, Castiel manages to speak.

“It?” He repeats, nonplussed, chest aching hollowly.

“You, y’know,” Dean’s face is nearly maroon. “Breaking up with me.”

Castiel’s insides crumple inward like a dying star.

And, as his heart breaks at the look on his boyfriend’s face, and the tone of Dean’s cracked voice, he sits down next to the human.

“I’m sorry,” He shakes his head.

“So you are?” Dean looks up at Castiel, utterly despondent.

“Are, what?”

“You are breaking up with me?” Dean clarifies, hardly able to look at the angel.

“ _ No,”  _ Castiel sighs, tugging Dean into his arms. “Never, if I manage to do right by you.”

Dean frowns into the angel’s neck.

“But—”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Castiel holds Dean’s body tight. “I—obviously I was hurt, and I lashed out at you—”

Dean squeezes Castiel back.

“But I was—”

“You were sticking up for me.”

“But I did it  _ wrong—” _

Castiel tugs Dean’s chin up and kisses the human.

“It’s fine,” Castiel shakes his head.

“I’m sorry I ruined Valentine’s Day…”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Castiel bumps his forehead against Dean’s, watches as the human’s eyes slide slowly closed. “Some racist dicks in a pretentious restaurant ruined it. And Valentine’s is a dumb celebration, anyway—you said it yourself.”

“But I wanted this one to be special,” Dean shakes his head. “This one  _ wasn’t  _ dumb, I wanted it to be special, because I was with  _ you.” _

Castiel’s heart softens so much it feels raw.

“Well,” He traces Dean’s jaw with his thumb, watching as the human shivers, “as far as I’m concerned, it  _ is  _ special.”

“How?” Dean frowns.

“I’m with you,” Castiel says, simply, softly, adoring the way Dean blushes at his words. “That makes it pretty special, already. I’m actually  _ celebrating  _ Valentine’s Day, which I never thought I’d do—so that’s a miracle, actually. I’m in the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, and I’m happy and in love—that’s  _ very  _ special. I just got kicked out of a restaurant and my boyfriend got in a fight with the staff, so that’s pretty special—”

Dean laughs tearily and kisses at Castiel’s lips for a sweet, delicate moment, before pulling back and hugging the angel’s neck.

“Idiot,” He mumbles into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel trails a hand through Dean’s soft tufts of hair, nosing at it gently as he does so.

“Do you wanna go back?” Dean asks, muffling his words into Castiel’s body. “Back to our dorms?”

“I don’t know,” The angel shrugs. “I feel… kind of stupid in a suit, now.”

Dean lifts his head up, off Castiel chest, and looks his boyfriend up and down.

“Well, you’re missing your tie, for one thing,” He shakes his head. “So that might be part of why you feel ridiculous.”

“The tie?”  Castiel raises his eyebrows doubtfully at Dean. “ _ That’s  _ what’s making me feel ridiculous?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean smirks. “You look a dishevelled accountant.”

“An  _ accountant?” _

“A sex dishevelled accountant, don’t be offended,” Dean grins. “Like, I don’t know, you just fucked someone in the office, you’re a big name in the company—”

Castiel chuckles softly.

“I hope you realise, you’re just running through a sexual fantasy I only just realised I had,  _ today.” _

“Really?” Dean’s expression is nearly impish.

“Really,” Castiel confirms, nodding.

“And that fantasy was prompted by… What, exactly?”

Castiel chuckles, shaking his head.

“You, obviously.”

“Obviously?” Dean repeats, raising his eyebrows and grinning at Castiel.

“Yes, obviously,” Castiel chuckles. “You in your suit. Who else?”

“And what did the fantasy involve?”

Castiel pushes Dean gently.

“No, Cas, I mean it!” The human exclaims. “I wanna know!”

“Okay, so like you said,” Castiel crosses his legs. “Me in an office, fucking you.”

“And who am I, in the office?”

“I don’t know, my intern?” Castiel chuckles.

Dean’s smile is wolfish even if his blush is modest.

“Intern, huh? That doesn’t sound half bad.”

“Or my secretary.”

“That sounds less cool.”

“But if you were my secretary, I could bend you over my desk and—”

“So do you wanna go back to your room and watch a movie?” Dean asks over the rest of Castiel’s sentence, flushing scarlet. Castiel chuckles and strokes his fingers up and down the human’s neck for a moment.

“I want to stay out, for a bit,” Castiel answers, honestly. “Our night doesn’t have to be ruined.”

Dean’s lips twitch upwards.

“Well, I don’t know what part of getting kicked out of a restaurant, having your first fight with your boyfriend on the sidewalk straight after, then having a breakup scare and talking it out on the muddy curb seems like something that could ruin Valentine’s Day to  _ you,  _ but—”

“What should we do, Dean?”

Dean smiles as though he’s about to laugh, a soft and quiet laugh he usually saves for when he and Castiel are curled up in bed together, fingers knotted together, legs tangled under the covers, sharing simple, sweet pillow talk.

“Burgers?” He suggests.

Castiel beams, and finds he can do nothing to suppress it.

“You know me so well.”

“Are you surprised?”

“No,” Castiel shakes his head, honestly. “Only insanely lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“To have you,” Castiel clarifies. “Insanely lucky to have you.”

Dean looks as though he’s tempted to duck his head at this. He doesn’t. Only presses his forehead to Castiel’s and replies in a low, earnest voice,

“And I’m insanely lucky to have you, too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will hopefully be up in around two weeks! Thank you for reading. Comments are love!


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